


The Dark Descent and Up To Reascend

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [37]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Human Sacrifice, M/M, Mental Instability, Mpreg, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean, Possessive Sam, Post Mpreg, Protective Sam, Top Sam, Violence, Virgin Sacrifice, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:50:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 88,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of the Dear God, It's Me, Dean, series. </p><p>Can Sam shed blood and bone for his brother, and expect everything to remain the way it's always been? After all, he is what he's been made for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Paradise Lost.

“I want to discharge you, Dean, I really do, but I don’t trust that you’ll take care of yourself.”

Dean struggles to lift a hand to his forehead, imaginary itch, and Dr. Lee rubs his head for him, drags a chair across linoleum with a chalkboard scrape. He takes Dean’s unoccupied fingers in his own, light brown eyes creased with fear.

“You need to call your husband, Dean. I know he’s away on business, but he would come home for this.”

Dean’s left hand trembles, he wants to hold his kids so badly, but he cannot lift his palm, and he’s ashamed to admit that a tear slips out of his eye, and his lungs shudder as he inhales, full body convulsion. Dr. Lee’s standing, knocks the chair backwards a few inches and he places both of Dean’s hands on his swell, linking them together.

“I don’t want him to worry, Doc. I’ve been through worse, trust me.” Dean has trouble hearing his own voice, but from the way Lee’s face twists, he thinks he got his point across just fine.

Lee’s normally pretty reserved, very empathetic, and he usually offers advice with a firm hand.

When Bobby woke Dean up a week ago, cold air and empty space, his biggest regret had been that he sleeps more heavily than he ever did in the past. If he wasn’t pregnant, hadn’t been out of the game so long, Sammy could’ve never slipped out like that. Never would have left right under his nose, broken words beside his face.

Dean can’t breathe, like a damn brick in his chest and he angles his head away from the doctor, cause he’s too weak to wipe his own face.

His back arches with his sobs, and he bears down on his bottom lip so hard he can feel the rush of blood to his tongue. Jesus.

He ought to stop fighting it, he’s five months and two weeks pregnant, and he’s in the hospital, executive decision, Bobby and Dr. Lee discussed it in his absence, near comatose state. Bobby’d carried Dean inside when they made it back to Sioux Falls, and Dean could see it, red haze of worry that Dean was slight enough for him to manage it.

Bobby had sat beside him that entire day, dozed on and off in the chair Sam used to frequent whenever Dean couldn’t sleep with anyone, too hot and uncomfortable to open up his space and share. Bobby gave him two days before he called the clinic, numbers that Sam had magnetized to the refrigerator, bold black Sharpie, fine tipped.

Dean was nonplussed, thought he could convince Bobby that he would be alright, lay in his sick bed and smell Sam’s Alpha-scent, Christmas trees and burning wood. That was a mistake, but he didn’t realize that until after the first night.

He woke up, soundless scream trapped in his throat, Bobby shuffling quickly into alertness, knee jamming into the bed post, aging hunters reflex.

“What, boy? You alright? Dean?”

Dean’s voice is ensnared, brittle ache at the bottom of his lungs, and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to speak to Bobby, reassure him that he’s fine, nightmares get the best of them, go back to sleep, it’s late.

Bobby must see something in his face, and he settles, crosses his legs at the ankles and moves the blade in his lap just enough so that Dean can see the dull gleam of metal in the almost-dark.

Dr. Lee may not believe it, but he’s been trying.

He can’t keep anything down, and the pups know it. Dec’s stopped moving entirely, Dean only feels him at night, small feet shoving into his brother, forced expanse, and Dean misses it.

Wants the kid to kick him arbitrarily, smack little hands on on soft spaces, not enough Papa to go around. Paxton’s squirmy, more so than he’s been for the entire pregnancy, and Dean wonders if he’s finally met his threshold of patience with his brother.

Dr. Lee takes hold of his hands again, something that his Alpha should do, and his face is worried, dark green eyes set into sallow skin.

“Listen to me, Dean.” Dean wonders when they became so personable, but it’s probably around the time that Bobby carried Dean into the Clinic alone, no color and weak pulse.

“Dean, you’ve got preeclampsia. This, compounded with your previous diagnosis of OFS, makes this pregnancy extremely unsafe for you, and your kids.” Dean knows a little bit about what that means, but not enough.

He’s shit at asking questions, Sammy would have had all the facts by now, probably written them down in a fucking pocket notebook. Dean’s spine stiffens and he shakes his head. Sam’s not here. It’s just them, and if he can’t take care of himself, he’s got to look after the pups.

“Can you uh, can you explain that Doc?” Lee’s nodding so vigorously that Dean smiles, blanket expression, tells him he doesn’t need to bring out the pie charts and graphs, words will do just fine, thanks.

Lee raises a brow with a smirk, and then his face is completely professional, eyes narrowed in tension. “Your blood pressure’s skyrocketed. You’ve got too much protein in your urine, which is why you’ve been complaining that it looks kind of foamy when you use the bathroom.” Dean’s spent his entire life avoiding hospitals, probably seen this one doctor more often than any medical professional in his whole childhood.

He’s used to self-diagnoses, Sammy cross checking facts at the library, and later, on dusty old computers, nail bitten hands searching for why Dean’s back is so bumpy, why’s this scar look so inflamed.

Dean presses his fingers into sheets, nods dumbly, like that’s supposed to mean anything to him.

Okay. Alright, so how bad is it?” Life or death, how soon. Dean needs to skip the ins and outs, they’ve never helped him, regardless.

Lee picks up on this, starts gesturing with the pen that he’s removed from his pocket. “It’s degenerative. Best treatment is delivery of your kids.” Dean raises his brows. “They’re not done cooking yet, Doc.” He feels stupid after saying it, Lee knows, is probably more intimate with his progression than Dean is, but he needs them to know he’s at least conscious of the facts.

Lee’s already nodding, inscrutable look on his face. “I know. You haven’t had an easy pregnancy Dean, and your pups are going to be underweight, no matter how we swing this. I’d like for them to get as close to full term as I can, before I induce labor.”

He shrugs. “If labor begins naturally, that’s fine too, but I want to give them their best chance.” Dean’s body sags, he figured it would be this way. His spine stiffens involuntarily.

Fuck Sam. Fuck him for making him this way and then leaving, taking off in the middle of the night like a goddamned coward.

Leaving his kids.

They feel the separation from their father keenly, don’t settle down as easily as they once did, and Dean recognizes it in every kick, every stray elbow, Declan’s press against his bladder.

But that was in the beginning.

He aches for them. He’s belongs to this cycle, vicious circle, but they’ve been introduced to the fine art of loss before they know they have anything worth losing. Acquainted them with death and destruction, playmates.

“What do I need to do? What’s gonna keep my boys safe?”

Hears those words from another life, a different one, long-haired boy and sun-kissed skin, asphalt and metal the only home they knew.

_You’re my responsibility, Dean_

Lee adjusts Dean’s blankets, back hunched in worry. Dean wants to apologize, for the frailty of his body, his inherent lack of cooperation when it concerns those he needs to protect.

“Bedrest doesn’t matter. We tried to avoid this, but you were probably genetically predisposed. Did your omega parent have preeclampsia, by any chance? You might’ve written it in your paperwork, but I don’t recall.” Hearing about his mother is a dull throb, fingers pushed against a long closed wound, phantom ache.

“She died when I was four, so I guess we’ll never know, huh?”

Lee grimaces, opens his mouth once, probably to offer condolences, but Dean looks down at the hospital issued bedspread and he hears the doctor’s mouth audibly snap shut.

“Mr. Winchester,” he begins, and Dean can see that his hands are fluttering around, wayward children, and Dean manages a smirk.

“So we’re back to that? You’ve helped me pee, Doc, you can call me Dean.” Dr. Lee snorts and then reddens, swipes one fist over his eye, and Dean registers just how drained he looks. “Then you can call me Mike, and we’ll call it square.” He says. “Dean, I don’t know why you won’t call your husband---” he holds up two hands as Dean flushes, braces his upper body on both hands to pull himself upright in indignation.

“Dean. Dean, please, let me finish.” Dean gives him a tight jerk of his head, and Mike continues. “It’s not medically advisable for you to be without your Alpha during this time period. You’re going to have to handle all the strain of this, alone.”

Dean sighs, fight stagnant in his bones, and he can smell concern enveloping the room, melted honey, and he concentrates on his heartrate, takes the deepest breaths he can muster with the way that Declan is stretching out his entire body.

“Dean, I just want you to know I’m available if you need anything.” Dean’s eyes sparkle, cracked glass, and his lips quirk up. “That legal, Doc?”

Lee scratches at the back of his head, smiles so broadly that his eyes crinkle shut, and Dean has to look away.

“Maybe not strictly, but, medically speaking, you’re not very strong, Dean. You have trouble maintaining an appropriate body weight, and sometimes you can barely walk. I can’t watch you do that.” Lee rolls his neck around, once, joints popping in release.

“I had a brother once. Omega. Looked a little like you. He was pregnant and he died in a car accident. His little boy only lived three days.” Lee shakes himself, makes his way over to the doorway.

“Your family’s going to be beautiful.”

Dean scratches at his abdomen, reflexively arches when there’s a sharp jab from Paxton, shoves the air out of his lungs.

“Calm down kid, when you’re up, you’re up.” Dean mutters down to his belly, rubs the sore spot that Pax has just created. “I appreciate that, Mike. I’ll be fine, though. I’m too stubborn to die.”

Lee doesn’t look back as he exits, laugh gurgling in his throat.

“I’d believe that.”

Dean’s grateful that he closes the door behind him, locks him into this sardine can of silence, because Dean can’t breathe when he’s alone, and he wants to feel that. Tight fist around his heart, every beat a bloody push inside a cage.

He leans forward, arm tangling with the IV that’s inserted on the back of his hand, and he wants to rip it out. Thing itches every time he flexes and he keeps inadvertently wrapping it around his forearm.

_Stop it, Dean. Sooner you let it work, sooner you can take it out._

And that won’t do. His inner spirit of reason is not going to be Sam’s goddamned voice. Fuck. That.

Dean scrambles under his pillow, twisting painfully on one side until he’s got his phone in his hand. He yelled at Bobby something fierce this morning, broke his heart on hate and rage. Bobby looked at him, real hard, brown eyes suspiciously emotionless.

“You call me when you need me, boy. And not a minute sooner.” Bobby spun on his heel, then, surprisingly graceful movement for a man his age. He stopped right at the door, bone white hands, washboard back.

“I’ll be checking in on you, Dean.”

He knows Bobby’ll be around, probably asking unnecessary questions, warding the room again if one of the hidden traps is tampered with. And Dean will probably apologize, broken breaths and lowered eyes, and Bobby will forgive.

Sam’s number is his most recently called, go figure, and he dials it again, before he can throw his phone across the room, give himself a reason not to.

“You’ve reached Sam Winchester. If this is an emergency, please leave your name and number at the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” Dean sucks in as much air as he can afford, and it’s difficult, lungs are too tight and his eyes feel like sandpaper.

He’s always hung up before the voicemail finished, but now the beep has already sounded and he’s just sitting here, breathing. A sob rips out of his throat before he has a chance to reign it back in, and fuck, now he’s got to speak. Sam will worry himself sick if all he leaves is the sound of him crying.

“What kind of fucking stunt you trying to pull here, Sam? Fucking left a note? Like that was supposed to fix it?” Dean wants to rage, more than anything, twist his bones into something formidable so he can break, but there’s no one to hurt here but himself, and Paxton and Declan are all he’s got.

Only thing he ever owned, besides Sammy.

“Sam. Sammy, just come back, alright? I won’t even be fucking mad. You can make that chicken and cheese thing I like and we’ll call it even. Won’t even make you sleep on the couch.” Dean shudder sobs into the phone, and it sounds like he’s being strangled, choked to death by his own air.

“I uh, I’m in the hospital right now. Don’t give me that fucking look, Sam, I can’t keep anything down. The kids--Pax and Dec are alright, man. Kinda quiet, but they’re healthy.” He pauses one more time, glances down and realizes the call has been going on for five minutes. Shit.

“Just call me fucking back, Sammy.”

He hangs up before he can make more of a fool out of himself, let himself wail on voicemail, allow Sammy to save that for all eternity.

The boys are sleeping, Paxton’s scent all curled next to Declan’s and he guesses there’s a first time for everything.

Dean uncrumples the note he’s got stashed under his pillow, and it’s wrinkled now. Was already slightly torn when he opened it, but now it’s a massacre, probably because Dean has balled it up and thrown it away about four times in a row.

Sam’s wrong.

He’s always wrong about the important things.

Sam’s not in any place where Dean can have his back.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence below, folks.

Sam backs up a few steps and plants his left foot just behind his right.

Alpha snarls once, tense anticipation, as Sam unloads his weapon, dead center of the abnormal whorls circling the tree, spinning frantically toward the stationary target. The tree wobbles in the beginning, and Sam is more than halfway through the magazine when the bark finally splinters and the entire tree bends forward at the waist.

Sam fires the last two remaining bullets in the in the clip and ejects the mag, sliding in the new one even as he steps over the predecessor. He glances around at the isolated field as he shoves it in with the heel of his palm. Sam makes a languid half-turn as he rolls his hand over top of the slide and jerks it back towards his chest. He releases it just as suddenly and raises the Glock to shoulder level, spinning around completely to survey his surroundings.

Alpha bares his incisors, but he’s otherwise silent, and it’s freezing out. It’s 23 degrees in Black Hills, fairly average for November, but Sam is unused to maintaining his residence somewhere cold. The longest they’ve remained anywhere frigid had been the winter in Wisconsin, and that had been a year of firsts, for several reasons.

He catches a rustling of leaves in his peripheral and fires, shell casing dropping near his left foot.

He catches a muttered curse and he raises the barrel of his gun slightly.

“Who’s out there?” There’s no answer, and Sam can hear the chilled rustle of wind in anorexic trees. Scent of dead air and open caskets, and he fires indiscriminately, little accuracy but tight precision, wants to frighten the interloper.

He could kill them, but he’s choosing not to.

“Jesus Fuck, man, I just need to talk to you.”

Sam’s breath escapes him in a rush, and he keeps his gun down immovably at his side, ready to raise it at the slightest need.

He’s surprised to see a thin Beta emerge from the tree-line, maybe about 5’9, all arms and legs, sickly pale skin and huge brown eyes. His hair is dirty blonde, extra emphasis on the dirty, because he looks as if he’s run through a swamp to get here.

His hands are visible, and Sam follows their movements warily, is well-versed on what it means to underestimate an opponent. Even if this one seems particularly weak, smells of decay and singed flesh.

“You probably don’t remember me.” Sam raises a brow, content with silence, for now.

“We uh, we were sent for Ruby, in the beginning, we knew you guys were meeting up. She wasn’t too concerned about you, but she said that you were a Winchester, and “no” always had trouble sticking to you.” Sam’s still confused, but it’s like being submerged in the water, light becoming clearer as he rises to the surface.

“You were in the forest that day. I sent you back, to tell Lilith.” The boy nods, and Sam can see just how sunken his cheeks are, the way the crisp sunlight glints off of his obsidian eyes, just once before they flicker back to brown.

Sam’s smile curls down distastefully.

“I’m feeling generous today. Would you like to be shot or stabbed?” The boy blanches, a feat with his porcelain-looking skin, and stumbles back a step or two, long feet tripping him up. “Mister, sir, look I mean, I didn’t come here to die. I mean, if I had a choice, which I do, apparently, you said I had a choice, I would want to be shot, but I got shit to tell you. That’s why I’m here. Why I came back.”

The kids sputtering around his words, hands raised protectively to his face. He’s a weak thing, malnourished human and wolf, battered hostel for the damaged demon clearly riding within. He’s no match for Sam.

Sam tucks his gun in the waistband of his jeans and rolls up the sleeves of his dark blue henley.

“Talk, then.” He infuses his voice with a benign thread of Alpha-command, watches the boy buckle under the weight of it.

He narrows his eyes. He might have misinterpreted how much he utilized in his tone.

“She’s been torturing me for months. Thinks I know something I’m not telling, or else why did you let me go? Not when you killed everyone else.” The boy bends over double, and Sam can see that his host is injured, midsection scents of rust and seawater, drainage.

“Could say the same thing about you. Why are you here, after all this time, when you’ve been with her for so long?” Sam walks closer, until he’s directly in front of the Beta, and drops to one knee, nudges his chin up with a flick of his fingertips. The boy is panting for breath and Alpha is strangely silent, observing rather than reacting.

The boy is volcano and baking soda.

“What’s your name?” The boy’s face slices up in pain, foreign to the physical, and Sam recognizes that, can see the way the maggots consume him inside, rotting fruit and shame, the womb of flies. “This body,” he says, haltingly, “was known as Kade. That’s what--that’s what I go by.”

Sam grins, pulls the boy into a standing position, ignores his slight wince of pain. “Well then, Kade, you’re gonna help me kill this bitch. And if you’re useful enough, I won’t murder you at the end of it.” The boy shudders, brow creasing as he struggles to meet Sam’s gaze.

“Are you gonna, what are you gonna do with me?” Sam is walking, can see the kid struggling to keep up, awkward limbs and poor balance. “You’re no use to me dead, not right now. But if you’re lying to me, if you even accidentally forget something you know, you’re gonna wish I’d told you what I planned from the start.”

They reach the obscure house, and Sam sees the yellow curtains move tremulously, sweeps the kid behind him as the door swings open, and Crowley’s face fills his field of vision. “What the hell is _that?_ ”

Sam wonders how he can sound twice as condescending, regardless of accent. “He’s mine. My problem, my responsibility, my choice.”

Sam shoulders past Crowley, knocking the man against the doorframe, and jerks the boy in alongside, his back grazing against exposed wood.

Crowley’s face is impassive, but his eyes are simmering, burn like ash in lungs, cancerous air.

“If you’d like to tell me just what the bloody hell you think you’re doing, I’d love to hear it.” This last is faux polite, poisoned honey, and Sam’s back stiffens, and Alpha draws blood to the surface, rash-sting, and

_there’ll be no more of that._

“Kade. Upstairs. I’ll talk to you in a second.” The boy trembles under Alpha-order, clearly unused to its effect, or struggling in his stolen meatsuit. Sam doesn’t give a fuck about either, right now, because he’s tightly managing his shift, and the only reason he’s deigning to do so is to avoid shattering the roof over his head.

Crowley’s body is deceptively loose, and his mouth is quirked in a semi-smile.

Can he not scent the blood?

“There is no you and me. There isn’t even a you and a me. The only thing that exists, is me, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.” Crowley inclines his head to the side.

“Winchester, I’m the reason you’re standing here in this house, the reason your brother and those bastards are alive.”

There is no communication between thought and intent, Alpha’s hind legs barely coil when Sam is tensed to spring, and his body collides violently with Crowley’s, sends them both flying through wood and drywall through to the other side, hallway to the living room, and into the burgundy couch, sinking against it with a heavy thud.

Sam doesn’t provide him with the chance to exhale, extracts his incisors and leans down next to Crowley’s pulse, free hand tugging Crowley’s neck open, exposed.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Sam states, plainly, voice montone. “See, they’re the only reason you’re not dead. The reason I haven’t ripped your lungs from your body and fed them back to you, the reason why I’m not forcing you to bend down and lick up your own shit.”

Crowley is motionless beneath the suffocating weight of his body, and Sam can scent the self-preservation, clorox and sweat, stringent taste.

“You can’t win without me. You became what you are. I was made this way.” Sam balances himself on one hand, tightens his grip in Crowley’s short hair.

“But see,” he muses, and Alpha is whining, bloodthirst and heat, bottled explosion. “the problem I keep running into, is that I keep giving everybody too many goddamned chances.” Sam chuckles, deep in his throat, serrated knife in his airways.

“I’ve asked nicely. I’ve been as polite as I know how to be. But you don’t want that, right?” Sam leans closer, toward his neck, can smell the alive-thrum of blood in capillaries, the clean scent underneath the sewage, night and sunrise.

“I’m gonna mark you. I’m gonna make sure you remember, this time, since apparently, it’s so goddamned easy to forget.” Without further preamble, Sam sinks his teeth down on the juncture between neck and shoulder, where he knows it won’t heal, not if it comes from an Alpha.

Sam would never allow anyone that close to such a vulnerable spot, could not imagine debasing himself, but he locks on tight, ignores Crowley’s instinctual thrash underneath him, the way his body arches into the air as he attempts to grab hold of any part of Sam in order to dislodge his teeth.

Sam releases him, tastes the dirty-bitter tang of polluted blood on his tongue, sin and open sugar.

He spits, drags his hand over his mouth and looks down at Crowley, body slumped in defeat, first full sign of rage in his eyes that Sam has ever seen.

“You want me dead. I know. And if you could, you would’ve killed me long before this.” Sam smiles, licks the excess blood off of his teeth.

“But I’m here to give you what you want. I’m here to kill your bitch, and steal you a crown.” Crowley sits up, pained effort in the movement, and winces as he jerks his coat over the bite, slight shiver at the sting of pain from the friction.

“You’re a goddamned bastard, Winchester. I’ll never be as happy as the day I can tear the skin from your bones.”

Sam laughs, Alpha enforced, and it’s a wild terror, unlike anything he’s given prior.

“You can’t kill me, Crowley. Because she _wants_ me.”

Sam adjusts his shirt, brushes the plaster and paint off of himself as best he can, can feel the slight sprain in his shoulder from the impact of the wall, but he rolls his neck twice, huffs out his air conservatively.

“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, man.”

Sam turns, moment relegated to the back of his consciousness, and Alpha is tamed, licks at himself, not contentedly, but a lesser cousin. He smells like blood-rain, innocent lamb.

He can scent Kade, smell sickness and injury, and fear-scent, hot garbage.

He takes the stairs two at a time, turns to the empty bedroom that he knows Kade is occupying. It’s his current room for the duration of his stay here, and he knows the boy sought out the smell, thought he would be safe there. He allows the kid to hear his footsteps approach, uncharacteristically heavy tread.

“I’m not gonna kill you.” The boy’s tense lines don’t dissipate in the slightest, and Sam can’t say he’s surprised. Sam scents of fury, and he’s taken no efforts to disguise it, wants it to permeate the house, bathe it in scarlet.

“You don’t give me a reason to do it, and I won’t.” Kade snorts, and then straightens his back, concerned eyes seeking Sam’s face. Sam sits down heavily on his bed, bunching up white sheets.

“There’s only two rules here, and I expect them to be followed, no exceptions.” He says. “First, I have an omega mate, and a family. Don’t ask any questions about them, don’t bring ‘em up in passing. I’ll send you back to Lilith in bits. Second, don’t lie to me. I ask, you tell.” Sam folds his hands carefully over knees, scrutinizes the kid further.

His first assessment was correct, he’s emaciated, looks like he’s been dragged through the wringer, straightened out with a tire iron.

“Why’d you come back to me? I murdered everyone you knew.”

Kade’s face flushes, and he stutters out a breath. “You didn’t kill me. You could’ve. Saw it in your eyes. You were all wolfed out, man, fucking scariest thing I’d ever seen, outside of a demon.” Sam shrugs, shoulders pinched.

“You didn’t run.”

Sam rises, body exhausted, taut nerves and frayed thoughts. “Don’t leave this room until I come back for you.”

The house is vacant when Sam returns to the living room, the hole remains, chunks of wood haphazardly falling from the gaping wound, and Sam thinks he’ll have to do something about that eventually. He strides for the doorway, and he’s breaking into a run as soon as his feet touch the earth, and there’s no charted course, he just needs to be away, what he was aiming for when he was at target practice.

Chilled air stabs at his lungs, sharp needles, and his whole body shudders with the contact.

He’s digging his phone out of his pocket and turning it on for the first time in two weeks, and Alpha wants to rush out, growl and scar flesh, but Sam restrains, closes his eyes for one second, gives the beast a chance to settle.

It’s not enough, never enough where Dean is concerned, but Alpha remains a low buzz under his bones.

One voicemail.

He clicks play before he can delete it, it would be easier. It’s better when he’s got no reminders of Dean. When he can’t smell him all over his shirts, can’t taste the entwined scents of his baby boys.

He regrets.

He can hear the rage, underneath the steady hum of

_come home Sam, just come home_

and it makes him ache with it, wants to salvage himself from the wreckage and debris, stitch up his wounds.

He’s in the fucking hospital. Dean’s sick in the hospital, and he’s not there. Dean’s no good at answering questions, even worse about managing his health. He’ll do his damnedest, for the sake of his kids, but he said it himself, he can’t fucking eat.

Sam thinks about smashing his phone to bits, but refrains, locks his arm stiffly by his side to prevent it.

He’s hitting redial before he gives himself the chance to think, and is simultaneously pleased and dismayed when it rings four times and then transitions to voicemail, and Alpha will not be contained any longer, he’s wind and rain, flickering lightbulb.

“Dean. Baby. Fuck, you hate me. I know you hate me, man. I hate me. But I can’t be around you, I’m not safe for you, or the kids.” Sam breathes in heavily, tries to erase the sound of Dean sobbing through the phone, broken noises, disjointed piano notes, and fails.

“Baby, baby, baby, listen to me. You gotta fucking listen, Dean. I’m coming back. I’m coming home, and you’d better be in one piece, man. But you ask yourself this, Dean. Honest to God think about it, and call me back.”

Sam doesn’t want to ask, despises the answer even further, but he’s out of tricks, and Dean will never let it rest.

“You ask yourself if you’ve been safe since the day our mother died.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby’s hand hovers just over the small of his back, where he thinks Dean can’t see it. Dean’s smile quirks up despite himself, knows the curmudgeon doesn’t mean anything by it, and Dean is decidedly less stable on his feet these days.

Lee said that nothing would be solved by him wasting away in his hospital bed, four-walled sterile coffin, and Dean’s inclined to agree.

He wants to kick Sam’s ass, and the only way to do that is to make sure these kids are born as healthy as his state allows. Then he’s going to murder his brother, rip him to shreds and then burn the remains.

He’s been walking for thirty minutes and it feels like days.

He remembers the machine his body used to be, raw power and untapped energy, fluid grace in the attack. Fragility is not something he’s accustomed to, wants to be sure in his own footsteps, find the niche where he belongs and sink back into it.

Wants to raise his kids with the awareness of what they are, even if he will never allow them to become child soldiers, never raise them in battle and famine.

Bobby hums approvingly behind him, and Dean glances to the side, can see the warm smile in Bobby’s eyes. “That’s good, boy. You ain’t stopped yet. Better’n a week ago.” Dean grins against his will, feels like he’s setting his own personal record, miniscule as it may be.

“Damn straight. Soon as these kids are out, m’gonna be running again.” Bobby raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know about all that, boy. Who’s gonna be looking after these pups while you’re out starting a track career?” Dean snorts, ups his pace a little bit.

“You know what I mean, Bobby. Sam can’t take me along cause he sees me as a weakness.” Bobby opens his mouth, damn near trips over his boots in his haste to speak, but Dean shakes his head, focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Bobby.” He halts, first time in half an hour, and glances down at Bobby, mouth fixed in a thin line. “He’s got himself in some trouble. He did it for the kids, whole deal with the demons, and now he’s gotta deliver or I’m fucking lunch for some hellhounds.” Bobby nods warily, hand still extended behind Dean’s back.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Dean grits out, begins his slow pace again, more determined gait, “but I’ve gotta go get him, first.”

Dean’s body abruptly sways and clips the wall, and then he’s doubling over, fingertips pressing tightly to stretched skin, and Dean’s eyes are large, rounded out with pain.

“Dean!” Bobby yells, comes around to stand in front of him, hand fully on Dean’s shoulders, and Dean can tell how out of his depth Bobby is, one hand is fluttering around, doesn’t know where to land, and Bobby’s fingers alternately tighten and release their grip.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” Dean shudders once and then returns to an upright position, face whitewashed. “I don’t know jack shit about pregnancy, but I’m gonna assume that was a contraction.” Bobby stumbles, gathers himself to his full height. “Where’s Lee?” Dean’s turning, he’s got five more steps until the end of the hall, and Bobby swerves directly in front of his path.

“Boy, you keep your ass still. Where’s that damn doctor? You’re about to give birth, you idjit, now’s not them time to be running around the hospital!” Dean laughs before he can think twice about it, and Bobby’s mouth drops. Dean knows he thinks he’s gone crazy, but he can’t stop chuckling, pushes tears from his eyelids, chipped record.

“M’fine, Bobby. It’s not a fucking wound, I can handle this.” Bobby raises a brow skeptically. “You ain’t never pushed anything out of your own body, Dean. I think you’re in for a nasty surprise.” Bobby, takes him by the arm, more force than Dean can combat on his own.

“You’re going back to bed, and I’m gonna go find that doctor of yours.” Dean climbs in wearily, hands gravitating to his stomach on instinct. Bobby tucks him in, blanket snug around Dean’s chin, remembers Sam telling him on the phone that Dean gets cold easily, loses feeling in his limbs.

Bobby’s halfway out of the room when he’s digging his phone out of his pocket, dialing Sam’s number from memory. It’s rang three times, and Bobby’s already cursing the kid under his breath, calling him everything but a child of God, when the ringing stops and he can hear Sam’s labored breathing on the other end.

“Bobby? Bobby, what’s wrong with him? Is he alright?” Bobby can hear the Alpha-rumble, even through the shit connection, and he snorts involuntarily. Sam’s the smartest kid he knows, can see a pattern a mile away, but he routinely makes the most ill formed decisions.

“Dean’s not gonna call you. He plans on killing your dumbass, but he ain’t calling.” Bobby hears the intake of air on the other end, and then Sam’s voice, clipped and emotionless. “Alright. S’not unexpected.” Bobby walks a little further away from Dean’s door, catches sight of Dr. Lee across the corridor and beckons him over.

The doctor smiles congenitally at whomever he was talking to and strides toward Bobby, question in his eyes. Bobby jerks his head to Dean’s doorway, universal sign of ‘hurry up.’ Lee takes the cue, takes off at a dead jog, and Bobby can hear Sam calling his name on the other end.

“Dean’s having contractions, Sam. He’s going into labor.” Bobby pauses, wants to give Sam time to yell, if that’s what he’s decided to do, but the wounded keen that trickles through the phone is unforeseen, and Bobby pulls the device away from his ear.

“Son?” Sam’s back online, clears his throat. “I can’t win. I did all this to look after him, to save _them,_ and now I’ve gotta come back, put them in danger all over again.” Bobby coughs, sputters over his own saliva. “What the hell, boy? You gonna leave Dean in the middle of the night and come walking back in, like he wants to see you like this?”

Bobby’s heated. He wanted the kid back, that’s for damn sure, preferably in one piece, but not this way. Especially if he’s about to leave directly afterwards. “Don’t bring your ass back if this is some kind of Alpha bullshit, boy.” Sam growls, and Bobby grits his teeth.

“Don’t get your wolf all worked up. That’s what this is, ain’t it?” He hears Sam cough, and then, “It’s a me thing, Bobby. You think I want to miss the birth of my own kids? And Alpha won’t--exactly, let me.” He says. “I didn’t know it would be like this. Never had pups, Bobby. I can’t fucking stay away.” Bobby’s nodding. He’s heard about that.

The wolf will drive the man, especially when the bond is strong. Bobby knows Sam doesn’t stand a chance of missing out on this, no opportunity to ever not be with Dean. “Sam, I don’t give a flying fuck about you havin’ to get here. You leave after he gives birth, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Sam pauses, and Bobby can hear the remnants of a snarl in his throat. “M’not going anywhere unless Dean sends me away. I only left because I knew he would be with you.” Bobby inches closer to Dean’s door, wants to check on how he’s doing. “I’ll never fucking leave my family behind.”

Bobby doesn’t catch the last of that, sees Dean holding his body tightly through the small window in the door, and Lee’s leaning over him, adjusting blankets and wiping at his forehead. Bobby doesn’t realize that the dial tone is beeping incessantly in his ear, and he pushes the door open with the heel of his palm, slapping the phone shut.

Dean glances up as Bobby enters, neck held tight against the pain racketing through his body. “Dean, I need you to keep moving. Breathe through each contraction. I’m not going to stall the birth, even though I’d like more time, and I had always planned a cesarean section for you.”

Dean’s face clouds with discomfort and then it passes, and he grips the swell of his stomach further. “You’re just gonna cut ‘em out of me?” Lee smiles, patient look, and nods. “Basically, yes. Traditional delivery wouldn’t be prudent, not only because you have pretty severe pre-eclampsia, but also because your boys aren’t in position.”

Dean snorts, so, Lee thinks he’s nervous about being sliced into. He’s used to that, probably could do it without aid of an epidural. His mind wanders to Sammy, remembers him discussing the disadvantages to using pain medication during labor.

His heart clenches. Fuck, but he wants him here. Needs to ask him whether or not he should use it. Bobby’s right. He doesn’t know what it feels like to have a child, only knows what it means to be ripped apart by monsters and magic, and this is the one supernatural event he’s got no experience with.

“Dean. You’re dilated about 2 centimeters. You’re at the very beginning, and I’m not going to lie to you.” Dean narrows his eyes, hasn’t had a twinge of pain in around twenty minutes. “I fucking hope not, Doc.” Lee chuckles, warm sound.

“This part can take hours, Dean, even days. I’d like you to dilate some more, even though you have a cesarean scheduled.” Dean shoves his body further up on the bed, knee knocking against the cool railing. “You mean this shit is gonna go on for days?? How many days, man?”

_It’s not a movie, Dean. It’s not gonna happen in an hour_

Lee outright laughs, and has to wipe at his own face. “I’m sorry, Dean, but you should’ve seen your face.” He says. “But, yes, Dean, days, maybe. It depends on body type, as well as what your kids want to do. I don’t want to rush them out, and if I can give them more time, you know I’ll take it.”

Dean grunts petulantly, and taps his stomach none too gently. “You couldn’t give me a break? You sure you guys don’t wanna just pop out real quick, take a look around?” Dean groans and drops his head down against his pillow.

Mike squeezes his shoulder in ineffective comfort. “Any complications arise, and I’ll move the surgery up, no hesitations. Alright?” Dean nods, stiff necked, but he quirks his lips up nevertheless, knows Mike has other patients that he needs to attend to, can’t be by Dean’s side constantly.

Bobby’s loitering in the corner, looking sheepish, and Dean’s alarms are vibrating. Loudly. Mike’s saying something as he leaves, bright even teeth in tanned skin, but Dean’s not listening. “What did you do?” Bobby averts his eyes, and then suddenly straightens his back, stalks closer to Dean.

“You listen to me, boy. I’ve known you ever since you were born, and you think you know what’s best all the time. You’re wrong. You can’t see past your own damn nose, so I’m gonna enlighten you a little bit.” He says. “I called Sam.” Bobby steamrolls right over Dean’s half-gasped protests. “Told him that you were going into labor. He knows about you, as much as I’ve been able to tell him, since you didn’t call him back.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. Kid asks him a question like that and expects Dean not to find it preposterous?

“He’s coming, Dean.” Dean jerks himself upright, faster than he would have liked, and his head is spinning with the movement.

“You didn’t have the fucking right to do that, Bobby. If I’da wanted him here, don’t you think I would’ve asked him myself?” Bobby laughs til he’s crying, body bent at the waist. “So you don’t want him here? Want me to call him back?” Dean’s eyes narrow, and he scratches at the collected stubble on his face.

“Well, you got him all worked up now, Bobby.” Dean pauses, rubs at his distended belly, can scent Paxton’s growing impatience, warm sunlight and muggy air. Dec’s smells more smug, like chocolate icing, and Dean chuckles to himself. Clearly, they’re just as irritated at the turn of events as he.

“What’d he say?” Bobby sighs. “Said he’s comin.’ Said it’s not safe, or some other bullshit, but he’ll be damned if he’s not with you for this.”

Dean nods lethargically. Of course, Sammy’s ingrained sense of honor wouldn’t allow him to abandon them.

Bobby’s face relaxes, and he takes a step closer to Dean.

“I may not know everything that’s going on between you two, Dean, but I know that damn kid loves you. Ever since you were kids. You were the first thing he looked at in the morning and the last thing he saw at night. You’re a damned idiot for not seeing it sooner.”

Dean turns his face away, focuses on the barren hospital walls in front of him, dull lemon yellow. He hears Bobby exit, and there’s a twinge of pain, suddenly, but it’s brief, doesn’t last longer than twenty seconds.

He scents Dec’s hint of fear and clucks at his stomach silently. Dec isn’t one for fear-scent, he smells like light, open air and wind most of the time, and he’s probably reacting to Dean. Dean can’t scent Pax directly, but the kid is probably sleeping.

Dean’s pretty sure that Paxton sleeps through any turmoil, of any kind.

He focuses on taking controlled breaths. He doesn’t know if it’s really beneficial, but he’ll try regardless. What else has he got to do, considering this whole birth thing could take fucking years to get underway.

He’s startled by the buzz of his phone, flips it open without comment, knows Bobby didn’t want to upset him, doesn’t want any strain on the birthing process.

“Dean.”

That’s not Bobby’s voice. That’s the same voice that asked

_little bit longer, Dean, can you pick me up a little bit higher, I can’t reach_

and Dean’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth in drying shame. “Sam.”

Sam’s voice is low, rough like nails, and he sounds ragged. “I’ll be there in an hour. I’m flying in. Would’ve been there sooner, but it’s an hour drive to the airport. I don’t wanna waste anymore time.” Dean licks his lips, bites at the lower in order to staunch his heavy breathing.

“This doesn’t change anything, Sam. I’m still gonna kill you.” There isn’t anything on the other end, Dean can hear the faint crunch that means Sam is walking.

“Doesn’t change anything for me, either. I made a deal, Dean. That means I’m gonna have to leave, at some point. That means I gotta do what I signed up to do.” Dean can’t blow that off. The reason the three of them are still functioning is because of the revised deal that Sam engineered.

He snorts in Sam’s ear. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it. Everyone should be dead.”

Sam’s voice grows further away and then more intimate, like a radio station flowing in and out of range.

“They will be. Don’t worry about that.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE CHAPTER YOU'VE BEEN WAITING ON.  
> Oh my God, there is so much packed into this chapter. Buckle up.

Avera Mckennan Hospital is bustling like Sam has never seen before.

John had ensured that they never attended hospitals in general, and most of what was done to them by medical professionals was done in the dark, shady clinics, which John had connections to.

He’d often wondered just how John had temporarily sterilized Dean, stripped him of his identity and demanded he be satisfied with being less of himself. Sam’s taught himself to blend, never use his size unless extremely necessary, and that usually only correlates to a fight.

Concealed weapon. Dean taught him never to exercise it on civilians, punched the idea right out of him, with bruised knuckles.

_S’not for them, Sam_

Sam is generally good at following this creed. Utilizes his height and amiability to get people to notice him, smiles down with benevolence when Dean’s charisma fails to get them exactly where they need to turn. There’s something about it that regular people appreciate. He thinks they like the idea of him, rather than himself.

Asked Dean about it, mouthful of toast, seventeen years old and sticky sweat in his own skin, so close to to Stanford he’s got a hoodie he ordered online stashed in his duffel, just above his Mag and just below Fruit of the Looms.

Almost full height, about an inch away, eating everything Dean’s put on the table before him, eyeing Dean’s own plate hungrily. Doesn’t ask though, doesn’t want the answer he knows Dean’ll give. He’s older now, recognizes Isaac for who he is, and what he’s doing for Abraham.

He makes a mental note to ask Dean about that later, knows Dean likes those discussions, never broaches them himself, and that’s something Sam won’t grasp until years from now.

“I don’t get it, Dean.” Alpha is satiated at this moment, acutely aware of Dean, low-covered scent of sterilization, but that’s how his wolf is wired, and Dean will always be in his sphere. “I don’t see why I gotta make less of myself. Just because they don’t know.”

Dean glanced over at him, silently, flips a pancake methodically just because he’s good at it, learned on a cooking show on PBS when Sam was ten years old. Dean doesn’t reply but Sam knows enough so that this does not deter him.

“We’re supposed to give ‘em---Dean, we’ve gotta give them everything, and they can’t even know it.” Dean’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s not angry, he’s thinking, and Sam shovels eggs in his mouth in the meanwhile. Dean’s slower at words and better with actions, but when he chooses to speak, there’s nothing superfluous about it.

“If you’re a doctor, Sam.” Sam huffs under his breath, catches Dean’s slow smirk as he rubs greasy fingertips on paper towels. “Say you’re a doctor. You gotta patient that’s dying of cancer. You did everything you could to save ‘em, but they’re gonna die, anyway.” Sam extends his legs from underneath the table, old soreness creeping back into bony limbs.

“Alright,” Sam says, suspending his disbelief. Dean leans back against the counter, pokes at his eggs half-heartedly, spears them with his fork. “Some of the saving, they know about. They sat through chemo, lost all their hair.” He says stiffly. “Some of it, though, they never knew, all the tests and shit and hours it took.” Sam feels bloated, weighted down and lethargic, but he grunts in understanding.

“You gotta tell them. In the end, you gotta tell ‘em that you did all you could, but they’re still gonna die.” He says. “You gonna tell them how painful it’s gonna be, how they’re gonna cry themselves to sleep and lose all that weight, and fucking waste away, in front of their families?”

Sam recoils, knee snapping against the exposed wood of the table, jarring him. “No. What’s the point? They’re still screwed.” Dean slips into the chair opposite Sam, tangles his legs so that they don’t brush against his.

He looks at him, steadily, and Sam’s frustrated, says as much as he picks apart his last pancake. “I get it, Dean, but I just don’t _get_ it. Why’s everything end up being about them? When’s it ever gonna be our turn? Everything we do, everything we are, is to keep _them_ safe.”

He’s angry. Angrier than he has the right to be, with no provocation, but it slithers under his skin just the same, and he itches with it, a rash he just can’t touch, and Alpha’s stirring, against Sam’s will.

Dean laughs, it’s not a nice sound, glass on a sidewalk, but Sam responds to it, nevertheless. “We ain’t the ones dying, here, Sam.”

And as Sam crosses through the magnetic doors, he doesn’t instinctively make himself more manageable, lean out of the way of five foot women, with a tip of his head. He’s tall, goddamnit, taller than he has a right to be, closer to 6’5 than 6’4, and it shows, in the breadth of his shoulders and the cadence of his walk.

He knows, even though he can’t find it, that some part of his body is smeared with blood, collective of it tangled in his flesh. He knows he’s the monster that scares kids at night, the thing that’s so shiny and new outside, but decaying within.

So, he doesn’t cower.

People part for him, he has no trouble cutting through the crowd, and this is pleasing in a distant way, because this is elementary, to him.

“My husband is a patient, in the Obstetrics wing. I just flew out here, so I don’t know what room number he’s in.” Sam smiles down at the receptionist, and he’s blessed that it’s not busy. Everyone around him is scattered in the adjoining waiting room, filling out paperwork, and it’s majority Alphas. He assumes that their mates are prepping for delivery, or other exams.

He’s upright, and the woman looks mildly flustered, but Sam takes no pains to ease himself down to her level. He does smile kindly at her, because he means her no harm, but he really is on a one man mission.

“What’s uh, what’s your husband’s name?” Sam braces one arm on the green counter, takes most of his weight on one leg. “Dean Winchester.” The woman clicks on the desktop absently and then smiles up at him, less tentative than before. Accepting.

Sam flashes his ID when she asks for it, and hums to himself, biting back his irritation at the wait.

“He’s on the third floor, room 356. Visiting hours are different for this wing, so you’ll need to talk to nursing. You probably have a few good hours left, though.” Sam’s lips quirk, at the insinuation the Beta makes. As if he’ll be leaving anytime soon.

He thinks about the stairs, knows he could take them three, maybe four at once, but he knows that’s only inherent impatience. The elevator is uncrowded, and it will get him there in a fourth of the time. He understands that Dean is livid, knows his brother is aware of the reasons, but cannot condone them, and he’s not particularly excited about this turn of events.

He still pauses, when he comes up on Room 356, because he hasn’t seen Dean in three weeks, almost a month, and he’s thrumming with the idea. Alpha is more cautious, astonishingly, looks solemnly at Sam, anticipating the inevitable.

He can see through the small window, that Dean is alone, propped up in bed with so many pillows, tucked neatly around himself.

He looks worse than Sam remembers, and that’s heart heavy, because he’d been getting better, gaining some weight back. Dean looks like slow death, and Sam’s responsible for that. He files that away for safekeeping as he turns the handle briskly and allows the door to click shut behind him.

Dean’s meeting his gaze placidly, probably knew Sam was lurking outside the room beforehand.

“You look like shit.” Dean’s voice is gravel on sandpaper, and Sam winces to hear it.

Sam shrugs, steps into the room further and bows his flesh tight, doesn’t let himself tangle his body in with Dean’s until he’s swallowed them all whole.

Somehow, he thinks he might catch the end of Dean’s elbow.

“Don’t sleep.” He offers this like a hollow platitude, can see just what Dean thinks of it by the downturn of his lips, dead grass of his eyes.

“What’re you doing here, Sam. I don’t need a babysitter. Lee’s gonna cut them out of me, pretty soon, anyway. I’m dilated six centimeters already.”

And that’s what Sam’s been scenting, underneath the home-smell of Dean and the sleepy scent of his boys. Smells like Alpha, and Sam recognizes the scent, weather beaten rocks on the sea.

“He been here a lot?” Sam hates the way his fury limits him to brisk sentences, mouth not trusting itself to speak. Dean’s brow furrows in uncertainty. “Well, yeah, Sam. He’s my doctor. He tends to come around from time to time.” Sam’s hand curls into a fist, bright hot and lead, and he counts to twenty in his head, even breaths.

“That’s not what I’m asking, Dean.” Dean’s mouth pops open with understanding, and he starts laughing, body trembling with small shocks. Sam wants that, wants to crack open where Dean can see him, but all he can smell is Dean covered in Lee’s scent and he wants broken bones, splintered to peek outside of torn flesh.

He can’t though. Lee’s delivering his pups.

Dean stops laughing, faucet turned off, and glares fire in Sam’s eyes. “You think I could let someone else touch me, when you’re it, for me?” His mouth shuts, jaw twitching once. Sam won’t get anything else out of him, about that, and he wisely refrains.

He’s about to ask Dean how he feels when his brother’s body arches in the air, closet exorcism, and then shudders its way back down on the bed. Dean’s breathing through his nose, teeth digging into his lip, and Sam’s got one hand around Dean’s neck before his brother is even fully back to himself.

He reaches out a hand for the swell of his kids, but Dean growls, low in his throat. “Don’t touch ‘em. Not when I’m like this.” He looks up in apology, shrugs a shoulder.

“I don’t know shit about this. I do know I’ll rip your hand off if you get too close to them, right now.” Sam tucks his free hand in his pocket. “Why’s that?” Dean sighs, long suffering. “Why is anything, Sam? Just the way it is. Not like either of us would know.”

Sam absorbs that blow the way it’s meant to be, allows it to penetrate his chest and settle, because that’s what Dean needs right now.

His brother’s body tightens again, and he lets out a low curse. He’s suspended in the air, cartoon animation, and then he releases, grasping weakly at the fabric of Sam’s t-shirt. Dean’s hair sticks lightly to his forehead, and Sam can scent the frustration of his kids, didn’t know he would be able to smell their dissatisfaction, deep desire for _out._

Dean blinks up at the ceiling, and Sam runs his finger along the exposed column of Dean’s throat. Wants to apologize in every language, let Dean exorcise him with words and venom, but now is not the time, and it’ll never be enough.

Dean inhales sharply, faces Sam fully. “Shit hurts, Sam.” Sam laughs dryly. “Always said you could handle anything.” Sam wants to provide him with a list, tell him why it hurts the way it does, but Dean never wants that when he’s thinking on something.

“Like, deep inside, Sammy. Fucking bones ache, and it doesn’t stop. Fuck, won’t end til they’re out.” Sam understands the gist of that, because it’s Dean, and he’s scared. Sam doesn’t fear anything this world has to offer him, has only ever felt real terror at what it could take away.

He doesn’t have a sphere of reference for this, and it knocks him off balance.

Before he can continue with his existential crisis, the door opens smoothly, and a nurse leans inside. “Hey Greensleeves!”

Dean groans audibly, and Sam presses a kiss to his forehead before meeting the intruder head on. “I’m Sam, Mr. Winchester’s husband.” Sam stands implacably, shoulders squared, and she’s not short, about 5’7, but her eyes widen as she travels from jeans to V-neck.

“Jesus.” She colors instantly, and Dean snorts from his throne.

“It’s not my first day,” she says hurriedly. “Just uh, you already know you’re tall, no need for me to say it again, but. You’re a giant. Mr. Winchester,” She tacks on at the end, for propriety’s sake. He nods slowly, like it is a new fact he needs to absorb.

“Now that you’ve seen my Sasquatch of a husband, what d’you need, Katie?” Sam scoots out of her way as she comes around to Dean’s other side, brown hair in a sloppy bun on the top of her head. “Not what I need, Greensleeves, but you. Dr. Lee doesn’t want to wait any longer.” She smiles apologetically at Sam as she lifts Dean’s feet into the stirrups and raises his hospital gown discretely to check his dilation.

“Seven centimeters.” She whistles. “You always this fast at everything?” Dean raises a brow, crooked smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She blushes, honest to God, and Sam bites down on his jaw in confusion as to how his heavily pregnant brother can still manage to successfully flirt with women.

Sam thinks it’s the eyes. Dean could always get him to do anything with a look.

“You ever decide if you wanted the epidural?” She sets about bustling around the room, pulling Dean’s legs down from their uncomfortable perch.

Dean’s mouth tightens, and he glances over at Sam, quick movement, but it’s enough.

“It’s mostly fine, Dean.” He pauses, knows Dean needs all the facts to make an informed decision. “It can slow down the fetal heartbeat.” Sam holds up a hand before Katie can dive into the conversation. She follows the implicit Alpha-command and Sam tucks his fingers just under Dean’s chin.

“They monitor for that, though. They’re safe with it.”

Dean sniffs. “M’not doing anything that’ll hurt ‘em, Sammy.” Sam leans down this time, right over the shell of Dean’s left earlobe. “Yeah, Dean, but that doesn’t mean you have to hurt in their place.” He straightens up, rubs calluses over top of Dean’s hand. “It’ll be fine.”

Dean nods then, and Sam watches the stress leach out of his body, all at once. He grins at Katie, who is watching them both with that dopey grin that Sam doesn’t mind one way or the other, and that Dean likes to avoid.

“Beam me up, Scotty.” She makes a shooing motion at Sam and he moves discreetly away, his long reach allowing his fingers to tangle with Dean’s with little effort. She rolls him on his side gently, so that he’s facing Sam, and Dean sleeps like that, anyway, it’s too hard on his back, otherwise. “Anesthesiologist should be by soon, to give you the epidural. Then I’m gonna wheel you on down to the OR, and Mr. Winchester here can suit up so he can be in the room with you when you give birth.”

She sounds so tickled about the whole process that Sam thinks she might’ve lied earlier, and it might have actually been her first day. Sam chuckles at the thought, and Dean glares, and then smiles, and Sam feels like, for the first time, things might be close to alright.

Katie fusses around a little more before she turns to leave, assuring Dean that it’s not for long, and “I’ll be back real quick, Greensleeves.” Sam wants to ask about that, but then things start happening quickly. The anesthesiologist comes through, and she’s a nice looking woman, mid forties, Sam guesses, accent streak of grey in otherwise dark hair.

She’s methodical and efficient in her efforts, and Sam leans back, rattles his brain to see if he can make sense of what she’s about to do to Dean. She smiles at his brother, promises him that it will feel more like a slight pinch than anything else, and he’ll be numbed below the ribs. Dean grunts his affirmative, and Sam doubts he will register any of this on the patented Winchester Pain Scale.

It looks like child’s play to him, and he really doesn’t want to underestimate anything about childbirth. He can’t imagine the past five or so months of Dean’s life, and all the energy expended and stolen from him in regards to the children. As if he would ever miss this.

Dean’s already signed consent forms, he’s aware, but she talks soothingly throughout the procedure, and Sam wants to tell her she doesn’t need to, Dean could probably impale himself, but Dean’s bright-eyed gaze is enough for him to keep his mouth mostly shut.

Sam can see her administering a local anesthetic, and he rattles around his head for what it might be. Lidocaine, maybe. She injects it into a specific point in his spine, and one of Dean’s brows raises infinitesimally, and then he’s still, right hand curved under the jut of his stomach.

She prepares the next injection, and Sam knows this is the epidural, and he can see that it’s intrathecal, same as the first.

She rolls him onto his back again and Dean sighs with the motion, but looks otherwise unharmed. Sam props his chin up, elbow on his knees. Dean looks so unconcerned, such a discrepancy with the way this pregnancy has been going, that Sam is floored. This is the way he always imagined Dean would handle this event. Implacable and weightless, gentle breeze in the summer.

The catheter gives Dean a bit more pause, and Sam can see him working up his air to protest, but that’s done quickly too, and Dean looks a little bit like an unfairly trussed up turkey, served to the Pilgrims against his consent. Sam stands and kisses the look right off of Dean’s face, teeth clicking against Dean’s swollen lips in a smile.

Katie comes right back in after that, smile as wide as the stars, chattering to Dean about this and that, and Sam hears the word Megadeth and rightly assumes that Dean is waxing poetic on all things concerning Dave Mustaine. He can hear Dean discussing the merits of In My Darkest Hour with no small amount of glee.

Katie’s giggling right alongside him, and how she knows anything about an album that came out in 1988, makes him laugh in all the right places, reminds him that Dean spoon fed him classic rock before he knew how to piss on his own.

Sam takes her place by his side when they start to move, and Dean blithely reports that he can’t feel his legs.

“Sammy. Now, I know you went through that phase where everything was Nirvana, and you jacked off to Kurt Cobain sucking your dick, I know that, man, but tell me. You didn’t hear anything in all the shit I played for you?”

Sam wants to laugh it off, knows Dean is full of it, but when he looks down, Dean’s face is pensive, like Sam’s answer really matters, one way or the other. Sam tugs on Dean’s fingers, thoughtful. “Liked most of it, Dean. It was ours, after awhile. You kept buying cassettes, and do you know how much of the classics I’ve got on my laptop?” Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

“And Marillion. We really agreed on that one. You used to sing Faith, in the shower. That was always hard, for me.” Dean’s voice is thick when he speaks. “Ah, Sammy.” That resonates with him, he remembers Dean saying that, a different way, in a different time, and he shakes his head. He’s never told Dean about that, the years of stagnant wanting, the acid in his lungs, entwined with fire.

The thick smoke and cancer of _need_

He doesn’t think that’s Dean’s burden to bear.

Dean smiles. “Hey. I’m gonna be going under the knife soon.” He squints. “On purpose.” He says. “You pick out their middle names. I used all my energy on first names, and shit wasn’t easy.” Sam has an answer to that, but they nudge him out, Sam has to disinfect and don scrubs so that he’s sterile enough to be around for the surgery.

He hums Faith to himself as he scrubs his hands methodically, pretends there’s blood under his nails and scrapes those clean, too.

He thinks of them faster than he’s ever thought of anything in his life, and he’s always needed time for thought. Sam doesn’t even stop thinking once the decision is made. He’ll continue ruminating, even as he completes the action, because he needs it.

He didn’t even know that, til Dean told him, broke it down so Sam could see it, instead of overlooking the sky.

_You need to lay it out, Sam. You look at all the angles, see everything there is to see, even the shit that ain’t there. You add up reality and possibility and make it happen. That’s you, Sam. That’s more’n I’ll ever know how to be._

Sam’s allowed to enter the OR, has to cross over to the side, because there is a curtain blocking Dean from his view, lowered across his midsection, and he knows that Dean can’t see what’s going on down there. Dean looks giddy as a puppy, folds his hands over his nipples and grins.

“Cake walk, Sammy. Fucking protecting my ‘omega sensibilities’.” Dean guffaws, loud enough so that Dr. Lee glances up reproachfully, little mirth in his eyes, and Sam stifles a growl by digging his own nails into his palm.

Dean’s not allowed to have Alpha friends without him, he thinks stupidly, hindbrain in full possession, Alpha only moderately irritated, probably because he is majority focused on Dean.

Dean nudges at Sam’s arms. “You think of the names?” He asks, tapping his fingers against the sheets. Sam’s momentarily distracted, nods roughly. “Paxton Halen Winchester and Declan Axl Winchester.” Dean snorts so loudly that Sam is legitimately concerned that they’re gonna throw him out of the room, and he won’t even get to see the good part.

Dean’s face is a slice of moon smile, and Sam can honestly say that he’s never seen Dean look as happy as he does right now. It’s a heady rush of endorphins that he’s the one to make Dean feel this way, volatile joy fissuring through his brother’s body like a virus.

“So help me, Sam, if their names start rhyming I’ll kill you myself, Alpha be damned.” Sam laughs heartily, careful to stay far enough back so as not to jostle Dean. “They’re good, though. Real good.” Dean sighs. “Fuck. I don’t ever want to name anything else, rest of my life.”

His brother squirms suddenly, more out of irritation than pain, and Sam leans over the curtain, easily enough, with his height, to see what’s being done. They’ve made the incision, which is about as long as Dean’s middle finger, and he realizes that they’ve cut through the peritoneum, which is difficult tissue to reach, and even harder to anesthetize.

He tells Dean as much, and his brother blinks up at him. “You ever clear out your head for any useful facts?” Sam shrugs. “I used to help Jess study. Back before, when I thought it might come up in a case. It’s good to have your hands in a little bit of everything.”

Dean’s nodding, slow and pointed, and before he can say anything else, Dr. Lee calls to Sam. “Good to see you again, Mr. Winchester.” He can see Lee’s hands moving, prodding at what is clearly Dean’s insides. He realizes, roughly, shock of ice water in his lungs, that he’s looking at the mucus covered crown of his son’s head.

He rocks forward a bit, and attempts to ground himself. Jesus Christ, something like this should not have him so badly shaken.

He watches as Lee reaches his hand underneath the baby’s head, forming a cradle so he can pull him out.

“Sammy.” He hears lowly, and he knows Dean’s not in pain, but he knows he can feel the shift, the change in his own body. Lee tugs gently, and that’s it, the head slides free, crimson and milky, and then shoulders and legs follow. Sam can see the greyish blue umbilical cord, matted down chestnut colored hair.

Sam doesn’t move too much, or else he won’t be able to watch the proceedings, but he flings his hand backwards, past the obstructive curtain, large palm closing over Dean’s smaller one. “Which one is it, Dean?”

Sam can scent them fairly well, pretty accurately knows, but it’s omega right to say, and name, and traditions are just that. Dean’s voice is breathy, steeped in awe, and Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever hear it that way again.

“Dec.”

Sam squeezes so tightly he forces himself to loosen up, knows he could pop his brother’s bones, but he doesn’t think that Dean would notice right now. There are scissors in his face, suddenly, and they’re asking him if he wants to cut the cord. Sam’s fingers vibrate like so much shattered glass, and but it stands on ceremony and he snaps it quickly, as easily as he’s done things all his life. Kid’s screaming now, top of his lungs, eyes squeezed tightly shut, red as sunburn.

Sam wants to laugh, little guy is clearly furious, and he hears Dean do so behind him. They hold Dec up, squirming little limbs in the air, and he’s thrashing so fitfully they can’t keep him in that position for very long. Dean glances up at Sam.

“He smells different.” Sam rocks back and forth on his heels. “Well, he’s not locked in your womb anymore. It’s more concentrated out here.” Dean nods. “He still smells like Dec, just smells like, I don’t know, syrup and earth.” It’s not easily quantifiable, but Sam understands, can scent the difference too.

They whisk him away for cleaning, and his APGAR, presumably, and Sam pushes himself closer again, because he’s so damn excited to meet Paxton.

Lee’s grunting a little, poorly covered exasperation. “Stubborn, this one. Doesn’t want to get into position. Don’t want to pull him out feet first, because I can’t see the cord from this angle.” Sam gets the sense that Lee’s not talking to him, but around him, and he knows how that is, stays silent on experience.

Nothing looks bad, Lee doesn’t scent of concern, but Sam’s wound tight anyway, Alpha is pacing, frenzied look in his eye, and Sam rubs a distracting thumb over Dean’s palm.

Sam hears a small sound of satisfaction from the doctor, and then he can see Pax’s head, and he growls in mild possessiveness.

“They’re fraternal,” he says to Dean, mid-watch. Paxton’s hair is golden-red blonde, stuck to his head like tufts of hay, and he’s squirming, but his eyes are wide open, and Sam releases Dean’s fingers on accident to get close enough to see.

They’re amber colored eyes, and he’s never seen anything like them. They’re not close enough to Sam’s own hazel to be mistaken as such, but they look closer to Alpha’s muted gold than anything he can describe. Paxton blinks patiently, looks right at Sam, even though Sam knows his eyesight is subpar, at best.

Sam has the same honor of snapping the cord, and it’s easier to hold Paxton in the air for Dean to see. His brother leans forward, sliver of a grin on his features. Sam slumps next to Dean, like he did all the work.

“Pax looks like you. From the pictures.” Dean nods, knows which ones Sam is referring to, the most comprehensive album they have, of Dean’s first four years of life.

There are far less for Sam, but Bobby had taken a decent amount, didn’t show John, didn’t show them til years down the line, when Sam was old enough to care, and ask.

Declan is back before either of them have a chance to think too heavily, and Katie passes him over to Sam with a thin, wistful look on her face. “What’s his name,” she asks softly, as Dec isn’t exactly sleeping, but he’s not caterwauling anymore, either.

Sam runs a too-large finger across his cheek, watches as his boy’s mouth widens and closes, sucking motion. He can see Dec’s eyes, now, just as green as Dean’s and a strange sob-sigh tangles in his throat, unprecedented blockage.

Sam would rather not speak, but he recognizes that this is necessary for the birth certificate, so he turns around and presses Dec into Dean’s outstretched arms, pausing to see how his brother’s face softens with something so sacred that Sam has to look away.

“Declan Axl Winchester.” Katie slaps her fingers over her face, and Sam wrinkles his eyes in amusement. “Like, Axl Rose, Guns ‘N Roses, Axl?” Sam snorts. “You talked to him, who else would it be?” Katie’s delighted, he can see it in her eyes, and it makes him proud, all over again.

“Declan weighs 5 lbs, 4 oz, and he’s 20 centimeters long. She smiles down at the baby, watching as Dean can’t seem to spare her a glance, he’s all eyes for his child. She directs her words to Sam then, and he struggles with just listening. “He passed his APGAR, and he’s just perfect.” She claps her hands again, and Sam looks up, finally.

“He is, isn’t he?” She looks like she’s about to say something else, but suddenly Paxton is in her arms, and Sam tears his eyes away from Dec to look at his youngest. Pax is just as awake as he was when he came out, but his blinks look sluggish, like he’s near to sleep. His eyes are muted without the light, but they’re still vibrant, and Sam takes him into his arms, presses a soft kiss to downy hair.

“And his name,” Katie prods gently. Sam smiles. “Paxton Halen Winchester.” Katie squeals a second time, and Sam can’t even be bothered to look up, because his index finger is curled in Paxton’s tiny fist, and he’s suddenly jolted with how much he loves these children.

It’s like someone has pressed all the _hotneedwant_ of his love for Dean into two tiny bundles, and Sam’s frightened, because he never had any limits, never could have even known what they were, if he had known he would feel this way about them.

“Paxton is 5 pounds, even, and he’s 20 centimeters long, just like his big brother.” Dean’s head comes up at that, and motions with his free arm for his son. Sam lowers him gingerly, glances at the way they’re nestled in the crook of Dean’s arms, all the things he had to do to make sure they made it here safely.

Katie’s excitement has died down a little, but she still looks thrilled, and Sam can appreciate that, the heady scent of funnel cakes and sugar. “What time were they born?” He’s aware that he says this last frantically, can feel Dean looking up at him. But he needs to know. Needs to have the numbers, so he won’t forget.

“November 18th 2008, Declan was born at--” she pauses, scrambles around for a clipboard, and reads directly off of it. “7:23pm.” She scans further and then, “Paxton was born at 7:39pm.” She places a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he’s thankful that she listed the day, because he’s not exactly sure he could have conjured that up on command.

He leans down, presses open mouthed kisses everywhere that he can reach, peppering Dean’s face with them, and for once, he doesn’t make a single complaint, only hums sleepily. “Fucking beautiful,” Dean breathes, ever a poet with words. Sam nods against Dean’s hairline.

“You made ‘em. You did all the work, Dean. Couldn’t eat, or sleep, fucking walk, even, but you did it.” Dean snorts, then stills. “I’m still piss mad, Sam. Hardest weeks of my life, not knowing where you were, and so sick I couldn’t fucking breathe with it, man.” Sam closes his eyes.

“I know why you did it, though. Don’t make it alright, but I understand. Cause they’re here, now.”

Dean looks up, dislodging Sam’s cheek from his hairline. “You thought I was crazy about you? I can’t even tell you what I’d do if someone touched them.”

Sam locks his jaw, anticipates the second Alpha attempts to growl in agreement and ownership. He doesn’t want to wake them.

They’re scrubbed pink, faces swollen and they won’t even look similar to this in a few weeks, when they’re not so brand new and baby-fresh.

Dean kisses their foreheads gingerly, and then his eyes widen. “Hats! Sam, they need hats! The body heat, I read about it--” Sam stands up, joints protesting and nods. “They’re probably gonna put them in an incubator, because they’re premature, but I’ll get the hats. I know I packed them. The bag still in your old room?” Dean’s nodding, doesn’t look as agitated.

“I’ll be right back.” Dean watches him go, arms tightening around the two as he does so.

He glances at two different signs before he’s able to cut through the hospital personnel and make his way back to Room 365. He pushes the door open, and that’s when he feels it. He doesn’t know what it is, or how he’s doing it, but he feels it with a certainty he reserves for Dean, and the demon killing knife is in his hand before he’s even fully through the door.

It’s Katie.

She’s swinging her legs on Dean’s bed, forced movement, because she’s tall enough so that her legs shouldn’t dangle over the sides.

It’s not Katie. He sees this at second glance. It’s wearing her body, that’s for sure, and it’s more malevolent and calm than anything he’s encountered before. It smells like an orchard, tangled in unbroken soil.

Underneath that, deep below, Sam can smell rotting fruit, sickly sweet and crawling with maggots, covered in moldy bruises.

“It’s hard, to be in hospitals and not want to just, take. You know what I mean? There’s so many of them, first breaths, still smell a little like blood.”

She hasn’t looked up, nor have her legs stop moving, in and out, back and forth.

Sam’s body deflates inwardly, but he doesn’t move from his position. “Why now, Lilith?” He asks, his voice monotone, the first level of defense before he cuts through the layers to reach the hot, dead fury he keeps locked deep, saved for those who are owed it.

Her head snaps up, and he’s prepared, how, he’s unsure, but he doesn’t flinch when he sees her eyes, milky white, irises completely covered, burning snow.

He can see Katie’s still there, but he can’t find her, and that’s jarring, because he’s always been able to, before.

“Because I can feel them.” Her words are sharper, less lackadaisical than they were previously, and he hears the bite behind the leash.

“You know why I like them, kids? Your kids? Babies?” Sam deliberately twists his own wrist when she mentions his children, because he cannot react. He cannot lunge, even though she’s given him such a clear threat, because he doesn’t know anything about her other than what he’s researched, and while that may be comprehensive, it’s nowhere near a checkmate.  

Alpha whines, wounded in his head, and Sam can feel every thick pump of blood in his body, sour taste of his own pulse.

“Everyone’s at their weakest, around them. Everyone burns, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, when I was writing this, I started crying, because I forgot for a second that I don't have any children, and nor have I been blessed to experience the miracle that is birth, and felt like I was giving birth to the twins, and I was super emotional because I had worked so hard to bring them into this world, and I hope that this monstrosity is something respectable, and somewhat enjoyable after the hell I dragged y'all through to get here. 
> 
> I'm an emotional wreck, so please comment and tell me what your favorite part of this chapter was, because I really need a pick me up.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean knows they can’t stay in Bobby’s house for the rest of their lives. He’d like to, it feels like home, but it’s one thing to have them there, and a completely new thing to have two infant boys in the place, screaming at all hours of the day, adjusting to a world they’re unfamiliar with.

And then there’s the threat.

It’s almost Christmas, and half of him is excited, never made Christmas special for anyone but Sammy before, but he wants them to be together. Wants to give the boys a bunch of presents they won’t remember, make Bobby take more pictures of them, considering he’s already got enough to fill a photo album, and they’re only a month old.

He doesn’t know if Sam will be there, though.

Remembers the way Sam had looked when he came back to the OR, two hats crushed in one palm, sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat.

“What was it.”

Dean can’t speak much louder than a whisper, but he can read it all over Sam’s face, in the lines of his body. He knows Sam saw something, and it’s got him rocked.

“Sam. I need you to tell me what’s goin’ on, man. Do we need to leave?” Sam spurs himself into action at that, tugs the blue hat on Pax and the yellow on Dec, adjusts their ears in their sleep so that the hat doesn’t fold them over.

Dean’s got so much to say to Sam, doesn’t know how to phrase it all, and doesn’t really want to.

Sam rests a large palm over top of their heads, so big it covers them completely.

“Lilith is here.” Dean flinches, once.

“What’s the plan?”

Sam looks shocked, splash of frigid water on fire, and blinks.

“You promise you won’t fight me on it?” Dean laughs softly, purposefully, and watches Paxton’s mouth move slightly in sleep.

“Course I’ll fight you, Sammy, but that ain’t the point. Point is that we’re gonna do everything we need to keep ‘em safe, and we can deal with the bullshit later.” Sam nods briskly, removes one hand to cup Dean’s cheek, and he allows it, knows Sammy is trying to ground himself the best way he knows how.

“I need you to take them home, soon as possible.” His face shifts once, and Dean recognizes it for what it is, Sam’s about to say something that’s hard for him, something that is the antithesis of what he wants to do.

Sam’s been doing that all his life.

“I can’t come. Not right away. I don’t want her to follow, and she’s made it personal.” Dean remembers what Ruby said, about the demon that took him, recalls it so vividly he almost tells Sam that’s why he bullied his way into driving with him to Rapid City.

Can’t leave Sam alone anymore, doesn’t know what he’s capable of doing, with regards to them.

Dec shivers in his left arm and Dean focuses on breathing soothingly, heard somewhere that it helps calm them down.

“Alright. Alright, Sammy. You call me, tell me what the fuck is going on. And, soon as I get better, I’m coming with you.” Sam’s fingers tighten on the smooth railing of the bed. “Who’s gonna look after them, Dean? You gotta stay safe, man.”

Dean smirks. “There ain’t no them without you, bitch.”

Dean’s never been apart from them. He even exercises nearby, sees them gurgle at one another. Pax was the first to make a bubbling noise when he saw Dean’s face, which Dean figures is facial recognition, and his whole chest seizes up at that.

Dec’s more interested in any shiny toy that Sam can shove into his face, Sam says it keeps him stimulated, even though the kid can’t grasp anything yet, knocks against Fisher Price toys with tight fists, swinging before he even knows about things worth fighting.

Dec falls asleep fastest on Sam’s shoulder, the length of Sam’s hand spanning his entire body, and Dean apologizes to him every night that Sam isn’t there, every night that it’s harder for Dec to stop crying and go to bed.

S’not to say Dec has favorites. He might even be meaner to Sam when he’s there than he ever is to Dean. Tends to drool on Dean’s shoulder in abject happiness, which means that Dean has taken to wearing a dishtowel on his left shoulder at all times.

Pax tends to ignore everything when Blues Clues is anywhere close to on the television, and Dean told Sam that he wishes it was as easy as Steve makes it sound to solve a case. Kid gets a real kick out of the talking condiments, and Dean needs to see if they sell those in plush toys.

Pax’ll sit still long enough to let Dean do push ups over his body, Dean dips so low that his nose brushes his sons, and Paxton’s red-gold eyes scrunch shut in amusement, sunset on the beach. Pax starts gurgling automatically when Dean looms over him, and when he tried it with Dec once, the kid practically glared at him.

He’s aware that they’re nowhere near the age to be cognizant of what they’re doing, or what anything means, but Dean’s worried a lot, and it’s easier to focus on the little things they do (or don’t do) than to constantly tear himself apart about Sammy.

Bobby’s so good with them that Dean keeps silent on principle. Watches him bounce Dec carefully on his knee, one hand cupped around the back of his head, the other around his small torso. Reads Latin to them both, especially when Pax is restless, and those are the times when Sam hasn’t been home in a few days.

Dean’s body is close to running at top speed, and he’s almost as proud of that as he’s proud of his kids. He’s gaining weight again, body still a bit thinner than he would like, but Sam says he’s got to gain weight the right way, whatever that means, and if he’s eaten more grilled chicken than he’s strictly comfortable with, he doesn’t mention it.

He can fit his own clothes again, black and grey Metallica shirts and worn-in blue jeans. Practices his shots far away from the house, doesn’t want to scare them with sounds of death that they aren’t ready for, yet.

And then Sam comes home. Visits home, Dean should say, head to toe in blood, demon ichor, bits of flesh seasoning his skin, Monster’s Ball.

His boots squish with it, and Dean can see he’s borderline to a shift, the way his eyes flicker back and forth from marble to dawn, and he’s stopped at the bottom of the stairs, carefully removed from the vicinity of any cars.

Dean leaves the warmth of the house, the boys are asleep, meaning that Pax is gradually getting drowsy, by staring at the mobile in his crib, while Dec has sobbed himself into unconsciousness about an hour ago. He jogs down the steps, moving quickly just because he can, and stops short of touching Sam, because his brother seems to expect that, and moves out of his way.

“Jesus, Sammy. Been taking baths in it?” His poor joke falls flat, dust in the wind, and Sam actually shudders, Dean can see his body quake in the dark surrounding him. “Time’s up.” Dean doesn’t know what that means, but he knows it’s freezing outside, and Sam looks like Carrie.

“Hey. Hey Sammy, come around back. M’gonna hose you off so when you say goodnight to the boys they don’t got blood drippin’ in their eyes.” Sam sheds everything fluidly, down to his black briefs, and Dean spares a moment of clinical appreciation before he remembers it’s the middle of December in South Dakota, and turns the rigid hose on his brother.

Sam’s body stiffens but he doesn’t make a single sound of protest. Dean didn’t bring anything out to dry Sam with, so he ushers his brother inside the entrance with little ceremony, dashes upstairs and back down, flings a towel at Sam and darts into the living room for the sweatpants Dec likes to drool on.

Sam pulls his briefs off, and they slap against the floor wetly, dark with blood. His thighs are still damp but he pulls his sweats on anyway, and Dean leans his hip against the doorjamb, scratches idly at his stomach, relic remaining from when he was full with the twins.

“Sam, man, you gotta talk to me. Can’t come in here looking like the Grim Reaper.” Dean’s angry, because they’ve never been separated for a hunt, only when Sammy was at school, and it’s not like he was hunting on his own, regardless.

Dean can’t have his back like this, which is partially why he’s been training.

“Sam, you can’t keep doing this. Wearing yourself thin, trying to get back to us every two days.”

Sam starts, grabs Dean by the wrist and drags him upstairs, at a pace Dean has trouble following just because he’s at an awkward angle, a little behind and a bit to the side of Sam. Dean grunts but keeps up, little thrill at the ability he took for granted.

Sam halts in front of the boys room, runs his fingertips over the sigils and runes he had painstakingly carved in their doorframe, in between visits. He strides in, sliding his grip from Dean’s wrist to his hand. He reaches two fingers down, hovers them gently over Paxton’s head, and brushes his hair, which has gotten a bit longer since birth, but is still honey colored.

He smells like an orchard, and Sam watches his little fist spasm once and settle. He does the same to Dec, can see his little boy’s hair is starting to curl gently around the ends, redness around his eyes where he’s probably cried himself out.

He lingers, second too long, and turns from the room, still pulling Dean. Dean allows it, until they’re inside of the room they share, and Dean glances at the baby monitor Sam made him buy, place of honor on the nightstand.

“Sam, talk to me.” Sam sinks down onto the edge of the bed, veins visible in his forearms. “You’ll still love me, Dean, even if I have to do something awful?” Dean starts, just a little, because Sam doesn’t ask him things like that, doesn’t even hint in that direction, and now he’s saying it like it’s a common occurrence.

“Always, Sammy. But, we tend to do horrible shit like that together.” Sam looks up, and his eyes are steady, but he looks so grim, looks the same way he did when Dean first told him what monsters lurked in the dark, why Mom burned like so much firewood and Sammy didn’t have matching clothes.

Resolved.

Dean reaches out, but Sam scoots back, won’t touch him.

“Hurts, Dean, real deep inside and I can’t reach it, but it’s there.” Sam wrings his hands in and out, wind up toy.

“She gave me a month. Said she was coming back in a month, because she couldn’t have me running around, starting a _war._ ” Sam laughs, tonelessly, rolls his neck and Dean winces with every pop that passes through his brother’s body.

“I can’t _stop_ this Dean, it’s kill or be killed, and she hates me. Hates me more than even Crowley, and she knows he’s been working with me this whole time.”

Sam stands, and Dean backs up, allows him space, knows he doesn’t need to feel crowded.

“She hates me for reasons I don’t even know, cause I haven’t had the time to look, because I’ve been so busy killing!” He says. “All I spend my time doing is rolling around in blood, and washing it off. Like a day’s work.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly. He doesn’t like the road this is taking. Sam’s leaning over a precipice and Dean’s not close enough to stop him, grab onto the back of his shirt and jerk him away.

“I’ve gotta kill her, Dean. I don’t feel bad about it. She’s threatened me one too many times. I had to do it, always, but now, it’s personal.” Sam levels with him, the most he’s said during this entire time, more than half a year of violence and secrets.

“I don’t want you to get pissed, when it’s done.” Dean’s shaking his head, eyes narrowed. “Fuck, Sam, she ain’t a friend of mine. Once that’s done, Sam, you’re done.” Dean crosses over to the monitor and holds it to his ear, listens closely for any movement.

“And if they say you ain’t done, and they’re demons, Sam, you know they’re gonna want more, we can waste ‘em.” Dean doesn’t want to look greedy but he does anyway, grinch crinkling in his heart.

“And I’ll be with you for that.”

Sam leans his head forward, damp hair brushing against his face.

“I don’t know if you can handle that, Dean.” Dean snorts. “Been handling everything you’ve thrown at me for years. Who do you think found all the used condoms in your pockets when you weren’t doing laundry?” Sam buries his face in his hands in memory.

“Jesus, Dean. Couldn’t leave ‘em at their house.” He looks up, and there’s a ghost of a grin on his face. “You taught me to clean up after myself.” Dean shakes his head and tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, tugs a little bit.

Sam hasn’t been taking care of himself, and he can see that now, witness it in the way his body is hunched, the thinness of his face. Sam doesn’t smile so much, anymore.

Dean sits next to him, heavy thump, and widens his legs so that they brush against his brother’s.

“M’coming with you.” Sam’s fast, faster than most people give him credit for, due to his size, so Dean’s remains unalarmed when Sam’s suddenly looming above him, chest almost dry from the impromptu shower Dean provided.

“Like hell. Who’s gonna look after Pax and Dec? Cause we sure as fuck aren’t bringing them along for the ride.” Sam’s pissed, rarely is with Dean, and Dean gets it, knows that, off the top, it sounds foolhardy at best, infanticide at worst.

“They’re not coming, Sam. Bobby and Ellen are gonna take care of them.” Sam releases his breath in a rush, as he straightens, but he still looks down skeptically at Dean. “Ellen coming up here?” Dean nods, patiently, father to child.

“Already worked it out. Jo’s going on more hunts on her own, and Ellen knew Dad, man, used to watch us when we were real young, so young I don’t even remember, and she didn’t recognize us, at first. Remember the last time we saw her?”

Sam shudders, and Dean stifles a laugh at his brother, who can kill anything with a pulse, still so unhappy about the mere mention of clowns.

“So that’s it, then? We just gonna leave them with someone else while we go out to kill a couple monsters? Pulling a Dad, Dean?” Dean knows Sam’s scared shitless, wants to attack every angle of this so he can poke holes, show Dean where it’s most likely to cave in.

But Dean wants to sock him in the face right now, knock him flat on his ass, something he can only do with the element of surprise, and away from his sleeping kids.

“Shut the hell up, Sam. This ain’t like that and you know it. I ain’t going on a crusade, this is one job. And we don’t have a choice about it, cause they’ll lose someone if we don’t.” Dean raps his knuckles against the nightstand, taut with rage.

“I’m not taking them, and I’m not leaving them. Long as they’re alive they’re what’s important. I’m just asking to do the same thing you’ve been doing.” Sam slumps his entire body against the wall closest to the door, and Dean can see the hollow of Sam’s naked throat, swallowing anxiously.

“Whatever you think you’re gonna be doing, Dean, it’s not the same thing as me. Doesn’t matter how you swing it, I’ll be the one to kill the bitch. S’always been me.”

Dean doesn’t see what that’s got to do with anything, as long as it’s done, but Sam lives in his head, and Dean can’t see it being a pleasant place to take a vacation. Sam doesn’t look at him when he next speaks, traces patterns on the ceiling.

“How soon can Ellen be here?” Dean rises, reaches for the monitor. “Soon as I call, give her a heads up.” Sam nods. “Alright. Between me and you, I think we can do this.”

He shrugs. “We’ve got Crowley’s army at our disposal, and Ruby’s been known to be two percent less bitchy in a pinch.” Dean’s lip curls at the mention of her, but he remembers her warning, how plaintive she’d sounded about it.

Yet another reason why Dean is coming along. Gotta keep Sammy out of trouble. And Sammy’s got himself buried neck-deep in it, so far.

Sam climbs over Dean and into the bed, dead on his feet, cartoon anvil. “Call her. We’re leaving in the morning.” Dean nods, this is Sam’s fight, he’ll allow him to make the decisions, best call scenarios. And Dean will kill beside him, and for him, like he’s always done.

Sam drags him close, big spoon, even though Sam’s mammoth body turns him into a melted pool of sweat less than halfway through the night. His legs sling over Dean’s thinner ones, tangle together so tight that Dean’s gonna have to ask permission if he needs to piss later.

Sam’ll wake up if the kids cry, he’s good about that, will stumble back in the room with one or both, alternating kisses to foreheads, humming some nonsense song he’s made up on the spot. Apparently, he’s been singing Faith to get Dec to fall asleep now, and Dean has to sing it at least once a night for the kid to be even remotely docile.

Pax is more versatile but he seems partial to anything that Black Sabbath has ever released, in the history of all time.

Dean recognizes that he may give them their way too often, but, shit, how’s he supposed to say no to those faces, milk and honey, small breaths and fragile skin.

He allows Sam to constrict his ribcage to the point of pain, and wonders how anyone could take this away from him.

Ellen is an hour away the next morning, three hour drive from Nebraska, where she’s left Jo in charge of the Roadhouse until she gets home. She sounds tickled to meet the boys, and Sam looks momentarily relieved, like he knows they’ll be in good hands.

Dean allows him to Alpha-scent everything in the house, saves the boys for last. They’re both awake, agreeable to one thing, and that’s that they’re early risers. Dec pops into consciousness, amuses himself with his mobile, but Pax shuffles into awareness, squirmy and whiny, like he doesn’t recognize himself.

Dean’s got his duffle slung over one arm, and he’s giving Bobby the lowdown, since they’re leaving before Ellen gets here. “Pax’s shows come on at three, Bobby. Kid’ll throw a fit if he doesn’t see ‘em, god only knows how he knows the time. Not like, a Dec fit, but he’ll yell and shit.”

Dean thinks that’s everything but he stops himself, rummages in his brain.

“Don’t let Dec lay on his stomach for too long. He gets frustrated cause he tries to sit his head up and he can’t.”

Bobby guffaws, and Dean’s taken aback, polishes his blade to a dull shine on his jeans. “What?” He says, irritably.

Bobby shrugs. “Oh, nothing. Just, I been living here too. Know exactly what they like. Hell, I even got pictures of them liking it. They’ll be fine, boy. Ain’t killed a kid yet, Lord knows you two came around enough.”

Dean can feel himself flushing, but still. He’s never had anyone but Sammy to worry over, and the increase from one to three is startling to the point of vertigo.

Sam comes down the stairs then, one boy in each arm, fists flailing, looks like Dec is actively trying to punch Pax in the face, absurd as that is. Dean kisses them each, four times, but who’s counting, and Sam deposits them in Bobby’s open arms.

“I just changed Dec,” Sam says cheerfully, and Bobby beams in his direction, shoots Dean a witches glare. Dean snorts. “Sammy’s a planner. I change ‘em as they come, Bobby.” Sam follows Dean out the door with a chuckle, and Sam drops their bags in the back.

He grins at Dean, snags the keys from his pocket, where they’ve been resting for far too long.

“You wanna drive?”

Dean slides behind the wheel, and sniffs the air in the car so hard he’s afraid he might have accidentally popped a blood vessel.

Sam slides in next to him, cracks his knuckles almost soundlessly. “Where we going,” Dean asks amiably, can see his feet perfectly through the flatness of his stomach. Sam leans his head back against the headrest. “Maryland.” Dean whistles through his teeth.

“Don’t make it easy, do ya, Sammy? I’m a brand new Dad, you know.” Sam smiles wanly, but it doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. Dean decides now is as good a time as any to ask what’s been weighing on his mind.

“Hey, Sam. You remember that demon bastard that came and took me?” Dean knows he does, probably sees him in his nightmares, but Sam hums noncommittally, and Dean hates that sound from Sam. That means he’s thinking, slotting puzzle pieces together with accuracy.

“One thing at a time, Dean.” Sam pauses, turns his head so he can watched the treeline whiz by. Dean keeps one hand on the wheel and uses the other to dig through cassettes he hasn’t been able to listen to in months.

“One kill is for you, Dean. But Cronan? That’s for me.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers to some questions, hopefully!

They split the driving in half, which turns out to be decently manageable, considering that Ellicott City, Maryland is about a twenty hour trip.

Sam’s driven longer with no breaks, on particularly bad hunts, Dean warped into his seat, hemorrhaging out air and plasma, broken doll. Dean sleeps during the greater part of the second half, which gives him ample time to consider all the things he’s neglecting to tell his brother.

Lilith offered him a month, sure, but at the end of the deal, it was either meet her, here, or she would come to him. He’d thought about going alone, desperately wanted it, but lying to Dean hasn’t been working out in his favor too well lately.

And the idea of making Dean choose between he and the kids wasn’t pleasing either. He’s equally afraid that Dean will choose him, or that he will stay with the boys, sacrifice for sin.

He knows which one he would force Dean to choose, but he can’t take that decision away from Dean, can’t break his spirit in the effort of saving his soul. Dean will agree with him, on this one. Dean’ll concede that it’s better than the alternative, which is leaving them vulnerable.

He knows this about his brother. Knows Dean’ll tear flesh and heart in order to keep danger away from Sam, and he’s already halfway there.

He’s not going into this one blind. And Crowley and Ruby are already here, with a retinue of demons that he’s yet to see. He doesn’t need that many for what he’s planning, but it’s always good to have backup.

He’s looked up all he can find on St. Mary’s Convent, because that’s the closest Holy Place to where she wants to meet. And he realizes that she never offered him any choice at all, only different ways to die on her terms. He’s chosen the lesser of two evils, because he would rather fight on her home turf than have her within spitting distance of his.

In 1972, there was a massacre of eight nuns, bloody carcasses, and what appeared to be a ritualistic sacrifice of one nun on the altar. The priest charged and imprisoned for the murders has no recollection of the event. So, possession, then. Sam sighs deeply. She’s done her homework. She’s made sure he has no God to call on while he’s there.

More importantly, is what occurred at St. Mary’s College. It’s located in Ellicott City, and it’s about two miles from the convent in Ilchester. Sam nudges his brother awake, sees no valuable point in leaving this information in his hands alone. Dean starts into consciousness, eyes slightly bloodshot, but aware.

“What’s up? Sammy? You good?” Sam huffs in brittle amusement, that his brother isn’t fully cognizant of the fact that he can take care of himself, and continues to do so, with or without Dean’s aid. “We’re headed to St. Mary’s College, Dean.” Dean shrugs, rolls his spine and pops several joints in succession.

“Alright. What’s fucked up about it?” Dean drives straight to the point and yawns so hard Sam can hear his jaw pop.

“Well, for starters, the locals call it Hell House.” Dean scrubs a hand across his eyes. “Fucking awesome. What else?” Sam snorts and flexes his fingers against the wood of the steering wheel, nudges Alpha into awareness gently. He’s gonna need him.

“This religious group called Redemptorists bought the land in 1866.” Sam pauses, to give Dean time to cut in, but when his brother remains silent he pushes ahead. “So Redemptorists, they’re like a sect of Catholicism, but they tend to focus on bringing aid and religion to poor people, who might otherwise not have access to it.” Dean grunts in understanding. “So they bought this land from this dude who planned on turning it into a tavern, but, things changed, and it wasn’t a good location anymore, so he sold it to the priests.” He says. “They turn the place into a seminary, and it’s real close to where they live, so it’s an easy commute.”

Dean hums, buffs out imaginary scratches on his blade.

“Seminary opens two years after they buy it, and then shit hits the fan. Fucking fire destroys the lower house and the school, and only the upstairs is in any kind of condition for people to live in.” Dean raises his brow. “Fire, huh?” Sam snorts.

“Exactly. They close the school four years later and put the land up for sale when the truth comes out.” Dean’s grinning, serpentine smile, and it heartens Sam at the same time that it scares him, cause Dean doesn’t know what’s going on, all the blood on his hands and winding through lungs.

“Turns out, Father David was performing a ritualistic sacrifice.” Dean groans. “Course. Why make it easy on us?” Sam reaches over and winds his fingers through Dean’s hair, feels his brother reluctantly settle.

“Took five girls, arranged ‘em at the corners of a pentagram and hanged them, facing one another. Burnt the place down and shot himself in the middle of the fire.” Dean’s head thunks back against the headrest.

“Building’s been abandoned ever since. They’ve had some looters and things like that, but they all call it Hell House, and they say it’s haunted by the ghosts of the girls who were murdered there.” Dean raises his head, one hand still curled menacingly around the handle of his blade.

“S’fucking summoning space, Sammy.” Sam nods mutely, loves it when Dean comes up with the answer faster than he could. Took him two days to piece that together, probably because he’d been focusing on the big picture, and what the convent could mean to them. Dean doesn’t have the rest of that cluttering his head, and he sees what Sam should have known from day one.

“It’s desecrated ground.” Sam says. Sam slows his speed as they pass a cop car. Dean nods soundlessly, dark motion. “Worse than unholy ground. Remember when we hunted those witches in Albany?” Sam’s only confused for a second, cycles through his mental filing system before he locates the case Dean’s referring to.

“I was sixteen.” Dean hums. “They were sacrificing animals, man. Kittens and shit, straight from the womb. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, I guess.” Dean rubs at his forehead. “Shit was brutal. Dad made you the lookout. You fucking hated seeing stuff like that. Pissed you off.”

Sam remembers the case in question, recalls that he did look, anyway. He was a sixteen year old Alpha. John could tell him something as simple as to lock the door behind him, and it made him see blood.

“Had them in the middle of the pentagram, man. In the cathedral.” Sam rubs the bridge of his nose in anxiety, then snaps his neck up so quickly that he growls on instinct and Dean recoils. “Shit, Sammy, you alright?” Sam nods vigorously.

“Desecrated ground. Desecrated.” Dean’s nodding, slow grin on his face. He doesn’t know what Sam’s thinking, too busy wondering if his brother is right in the head, but Sam gets a certain look on his face when he’s figuring things out, piecing together the way they work.

“It’s stronger that way, right? Debasing the ground, twisting it to work against the very thing it’s meant to serve.”

Dean knows that, knows Sammy knows it, but he can’t see what’s got him so worked up.

“You wanna clue me in, kid?” Sam taps out a beat on the wheel, turns left.

“You were right. It was a summoning space Father David made back in 1868. And what’s the basic component of a summoning space, Dean? What makes it work?” Dean scoots forward, braces his hands against the dash.

“Unholy ground. In this case, desecrated ground.” Sam pumps his fist in the air. “She’s planning to summon something. Whatever it is, it’s powerful enough to need to use a summoning space that’s been here for over a hundred years.”

Dean sits back, temporarily deflated. “We ain’t prepared for this, Sammy. We don’t know what’s she’s planning, or how long she’s been planning it.” Sam grunts, removes one hand from the wheel. “But we do know how to destroy a summoning space, Dean. We’re not out for the count.”

Dean glares at him. “We do, or you do, Sam? Cause I ain’t ran across all that many ones as strong as this.” Sam blinks over at him, a second too long and Dean’s hand is knocking his out of the way to steer them back into the center lane.

“If Lilith doesn’t kill you Sam, I will. Watch the road, will you?”

Sam knocks Dean’s hands back absently. “You need to sacrifice something evil in the space. Preferably, whatever being is doing the summoning.” Dean chokes and sputters ungracefully all over Sam. “You want us to, what, exorcise Lilith mid-summons?”

Sam clears his throat.

“No. I want us to kill her.”

Dean whistles. “How, Sammy, if she’s everything you say she is, she ain’t gonna be exactly--” his brother stops and Sam’s body runs fifteen degrees too warm as he listens for Dean to come to the logical conclusion.

“That knife. Whatever you were using when you and Ruby came for me. That’s what you wanna use.” Dean slams his fist down against his seat with enough force that Sam contemplates pulling over to check on the damage.

“Calm down, man!” He exhales. “That’s what it’s there for, Dean. It’s created to kill demons. I just need to get close to her.” Dean’s voice is dry when he next speaks. “Fuck, Sam. You don’t even--we don’t even know what we’re dealing with here.” Dean’s voice rises an octave.

“You were planning on doing this alone, weren’t you?” Sam’s shoulders tighten and Alpha’s been listening in detached fascination, because now he’s up in arms. He hasn’t been a child in some time now, was never provided the opportunity to be so.

He’s a father and a killer and he’s not easily reconciled to either.

“Dean.” His words tremble with just enough Alpha to warn his brother, but not to beat him into submission. “None of this is supposed to be easy. I’d rather Pax and Dec have you than no one at all.” Dean’s fists are pressed to his eyes when he sneaks a glance to his left, and he wisely says nothing.

“So that’s the big plan? Get close enough to kill the bitch.” Sam shrugs. “It’s not like we ever have plans much more complicated than that. And Crowley wants her dead, same as we do. If he’s gonna betray me, he’ll wait til that’s done.” Sam relaxes his grip on the wheel.

“I’m pretty confident right now, Dean, and that’s cause everyone’s on the same page. Whatever reasons, we all want her dead. After that, shit might go south.” Dean’s smiling, controlled, chicken wire across his teeth.

Sam’s only got one more order of business, and he’s saved the worst for last. He’s asking for God’s forgiveness for Sodom and Gomorrah, with no actual plans to repent.

“M’not the kid you know, not in there.” Dean stretches, feline grace. “Should hope so, Sammy,” he winks lasciviously, and Sam chuckles despite himself, thunderstorm in the summer.

“Dean.”

“Sam.” Sam sighs, rocks in his stomach.

He doesn’t give a fuck what other people think of him, but this is Dean. He sits up a little straighter, and Alpha feels the shift, growls lowly, continuous sound brushing against the tip of Sam’s consciousness. Dean’s never seen him be anything but Sammy.

But Sammy’s never been anything but this.

So, it’s past midnight when they make it into Ellicott City, and Dean’s got four blades on his person, in various stage of concealment, pats Sam down twice to ensure that he’s got his gun firmly tucked in his waistband.

Dean’s not normally so meticulous, but he knows his brother’s nervous. He hasn’t hunted in half a year, but Sam wants to tell him it’s like breathing. He’s not allowed to forget.

Dean never hesitates.

Sam’s phone buzzes while Dean’s still occupied in the trunk of the Impala, sawed off shotgun balancing the hood open so he can dig through their traveling arsenal. He keeps his brother in his peripheral, 90% sure Dean can handle himself, but then, Dean isn’t used to his current company.

“You’re here.” Sam resists the urge to spit when he hears Ruby’s voice. “In the flesh. Brought company.” Ruby groans on the other end. “Fuck, Sam. He’s gonna get you killed. You can’t fucking think around him!”

Sam snarls so violently that Dean smacks his head on the open hood in his effort to check on Sam. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters irritably, sends heated glares Sam’s way.

“You’re next, Ruby. Whatever happens in there, that’s my promise to you.” Sam says this lowly, so Dean can’t overhear, and he’s surprised at how calm Alpha feels, low-banked tide, tainted meadow with rain.

She laughs, broken chalk, and clears her throat. “It’s a meeting, Sam. We’re not following her. She _invited_ us here.” Sam checks to see if the knife is as easily accessible as he needs it to be. “Of course. Then why’d she get here first?”

Ruby’s silent on the other end, and Sam wonders if she’s hung up.

“Crowls and I are on the main floor, sugar,” she says, pressing as much brittle sweetness into her words as she can.

“We brought him,” she says, afterthought, and Sam’s temper is slightly mollified, containment of flames.

“Don’t touch him, Ruby. I know it’s fucking hard to follow directions, but this one should be pretty simple.” Five even breaths.

“I’ve got it, Winchester. Kid’s useless to me, anyway.”

Sam hears the slam of the hood, subsequent rattle of the Impala against his hip. He hangs up without preamble, if Ruby had anything of interest to tell him she would’ve already said it. Dean knocks shoulders with him, looks up purposefully, and Sam can see the boy Dean used to be underneath the slight stubble, sparks behind green eyes.

He’s thinner than Sam would like, but nothing but time is going to fix that. He’s wearing his own clothes again, and they’re loose in the waist but curve tightly to neck and shoulders when he moves, fingers flexing spasmodically over the handle of his gun, checks the slide three times before he takes one step.

“Dean, you sure you’re good?” He doesn’t mean to say it, but he would rather get bitched out and be sure. Dean seems beyond focused though, only nods at Sam’s inquiry. “M’fine, Sam. Good as I’m gonna get right now.” Sam takes that for the dismissal it is and steps in front of his brother, only way he knows how to move.

Dean’s feet speed up, tries to take his normal point, half a step ahead of Sam, but Sam growls, hand curling around Dean’s shoulder and snapping him backwards, wordless command. Dean hisses out a _fuck_ under his breath, gnaws on the inside of his jaw.

“Fucking Alpha shit, Sammy?” He says it quietly, which is just the more disarming portion of Dean’s wrath. Sam doesn’t slow down, holds his flashlight above the hand holding his gun, steps sideways, through the overgrowth leading to Hell House.

“Can’t let you in front. S’not cause I don’t trust you, so you can shut up about that.” Sam kicks at the high grass around his feet, so it’s easier for Dean to follow the path he’s making. “Remember when Dad and I used to make you follow in the middle?” Dean snorts, mirthless. “Course. Wasn’t so bad, then, cause I was still in front of you.”

Sam cocks his head back, wants to take in as much of Hell House as he’ll be able to before he goes inside. The entire thing is gutted, inside out, and the walls are exposed skeletons. Sam can hear the air whistling through gaping windows, see the lack of a roof. Emaciated tree branches tangle with every black hole, knives in open wounds.

He glances at Dean and Dean’s doing the same thing he is, mouth tight, eyes roaming even faster than Sam’s. “Let’s go, Sam.”

Sam starts forward again, shoving against the rotting wood where the door should be. It opens soundlessly, yet another sign that someone’s been here prior. It doesn’t open very wide, and Sam squeezes himself into the narrow space, pushing it open further so that Dean can slide through.

Sam bumps into Ruby almost instantly, knows she’s been waiting on them to come through the door. Dean curses under his breath again, and Sam grabs her by the arm and nudges her backwards. “Where is she?”

Ruby grins, cheshire cat. “Waiting for you, of course. Can’t have a meeting without you.” Sam’s raising his hand to meet her face when Dean stills it, brings it down to his side with no small amount of pressure. Apha continues his rumble, chasing release, but Dean’s a brick wall pressed against his side.

“Bitches first,” Dean offers snidely, throwing his arm out so she can proceed. Ruby narrows her eyes, wasn’t addressing him, and folds thin arms across her chest. “So, did you shit them out or did they crawl out all on their own?”

Her gaze slides meaningfully to Dean’s flat middle and back up to his face. They’re glaring, like two people that have a heated animosity for one another, and Sam can’t figure it out. He gets no clues from Dean, who is staring at Ruby the way he stares at particularly nasty spiders he comes across, attempting to hitch a ride in the Impala.

Ruby’s eyes are onyx, she hasn’t even bothered to shift back to blue, and Sam looks back and forth, can barely contain his own wolf, just watching this.

“You know each other.” He says it without conscious thought, but now it’s out there, and neither of them look up. Dean grins beatifically in Ruby’s face, even as he opens his mouth.

“Ah, don’t be jealous. M’sure one day that stick’ll crawl right outta your ass, and then all that shit won’t have to come outta your mouth.”

Ruby lunges at the exact instant that Dean sidesteps with a decisive laugh. Sam snarls so loudly that Ruby’s body rocks to a standstill, mid turn in Dean’s direction, and Dean’s smile freezes on his face. “You two can beat one another brainless when this is over, fuck, I’ll watch, but now is never going to be the time.”

Sam can see Dean’s face twist into something like anger, warped metal, and then resignation. He sighs heavily and cocks his head. “Alright, Boy Wonder, lead the way.” Ruby’s eyes are wide as saucers when she turns to him, too-bright sun in dilated pupils.

“What? What the fuck was that? That’s allowed??” Sam’s raising his hand again, goddamnit she won’t learn, and Alpha is prepping for war, scorched earth policy.

Dean’s leaning in his direction, not expressly attempting to stop him, but his eyes are frantic, and he’s glancing back and forth between Sam and Ruby like there’s a rope tethering him to this moment. Sam can’t figure out why time has slowed to a crawl, and he can see Ruby’s hair flying so slowly in the air that he can count each individual follicle, because she’s turning her face away--

and then time flows back to the center, snap of a rubber band as it hurtles back to it’s natural state of being. Ruby flies backwards, no contact, and he watches as her side connects with the far wall, decaying brick covered in mud-green mold, and her head impacts with a solid thwack. She slides down the wall and slumps to the ground, motionless, phantom twitch of her exposed hand.

Sam’s hand drops listlessly to his side, can feel his fingers tingle with the aftereffects of whatever force he just expelled from his body.

Dean.

He’s turning to face his brother, and Dean’s face is white as illness, bleeding color every second. “Sam. Sam, what the hell was that?” Sam wills his hand be still, even as he feels Alpha’s serene presence in the back of his head, claws unsheathed, but he’s perfectly stationary.

“I don’t--I don’t fucking know, Dean, I’ve never done that before!” He says. “Fuck, can’t even tell you where it came from--”

“But I can. It’s power, Sammy, and you don’t even know you’ve got it.”

Sam and Dean turn in tandem, fluidity only seen in the midst of a hunt, gazelle legs and python twists.

Dean’s reaching a hand out to Sam’s chest, and his hand drops as his eyes focus. Sam stands upright, practice wiping any confusion out of his eyes, and he steps forward, and a little to the right of Dean, hoping his brother will be too flustered to throw himself in harm’s way, per usual.

Lilith looks ethereal, body clad in cream, neckline of lace mingling sweetly with the silk of the gown that brushes gently against the tops of her feet. New host, same height as Katie but startlingly blonde, but Sam can smell that it’s her, scent the orchard and fetid growth. Crowley stands beside her, one hand casually resting in his pocket, the other brushing dirt off of his lapel. His smile is nothing but serrated teeth.

“Samuel. Nice of you to join the party.”

Sam leaches the inflection out of his tone, Alpha’s spine stiffens imperceptibly. He looks from one to the other, expressionlessly.

They’re here together.

Sam tucks that away for further examination, takes a long stride forward.

“So, you’re saying that whatever this is, it’s a part of me.”

Lilith smiles, warped benevolence folding over her features.

“Sam. You’re thinking small. It _is_ you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a decent amount of gore, and graphic elements that some may find EXTREMELY triggering. Scroll to the end notes for spoilers if you think this may concern you.

Dean can’t see from behind Sam.

It’s pissing him off, in the worst way, because he _could_ move, take a few steps to the right and be directly in Lilith’s line of vision, see Crowley up close and personal, for the first time. But Sam’s vibrating with something he doesn't know how to classify, lightning in a bottle, flower petals stuck to honey.

Dean can feel the difference, sense how Sam’s holding himself back, and Sam’s always given all of himself, not a bit less or more.

Dean can see the crown of Ruby’s head, puddle of thick blood collecting, strawberry syrup.

Sam didn’t touch her. He was going to, was gonna knock her out, same way he almost did when they first arrived. Dean’s got no great love for the bitch, but unprecipitated violence has never meshed with who Sammy is.

Dean didn’t even get the chance to block anything, Ruby was hurtled backwards by sheer force.

He can hear Lilith talking, smooth grind, and he steels himself in the protected position he’s been unnecessarily placed in.

“Do you think this was an accident?” Dean can see Sam’s spine stiffen further, draw him up to his complete height.

Lilith steamrolls over her gap in the conversation, and then she’s in motion, dress dragging against the ground as she glides further into Dean’s horizon.

“I brought you to a summoning space that hasn’t been touched in a century.” Sam’s gritting his teeth, Dean can hear it, bone against bone. “It’s desecrated ground. What the fuck are you trying to do here?”

Crowley coughs, caustic sound, and Dean decides, fuck it, and slides an inch or so from behind the Wall of Sam to see what the fuck is going on here.

Dean feels, more than hears his brother’s responding growl, and then his feet slide back into their previous position, against his body’s will.

He barely manages to bite down on his lower lip, drop of blood flicking out onto his tongue.

_what the fuck_

He checks to see if his feet are still majority under his command, and they wiggle in his boots. Base comforts.  

Lilith smiles at him, flickers so bright Dean has to look down and away. Sam’s voice, pebble smooth in his ear. “This is between you and me, Lilith.” It’s a veiled threat, and Dean appreciates that Sam is attempting to curb whatever fury unleashed this new found talent of his.

Lilith chuckles, heavier sound than he would have thought her capable of. “It’s an extension of your will, Sam. It’s how you were made.” Dean takes an aborted step forward, rocks back on his heels. So, Boy Wonder has him super glued to rotting concrete.

“I’ll play. Explain.” Dean knows Sam well enough to understand that he’s partially curious, but the other half of him is buying time. Dean decides he can can be of a modicum of use and look the hell around, search broken beams and molding wood for anything that could give them the homefield advantage.

“I’m gonna tell you a story, Sammy. You interrupt me if I’m wrong, alright?” Dean closes his eyes, because Sam went through a phase where every time he was accidentally (on purpose) called Sammy, he would throw the biggest tantrum known to man, complete with slammed doors and weaponized textbooks. Speaking of which, AP British Lit hurt like bitch.

Sam’s body not only remains deadlocked, it actually relaxes a fraction, and Dean doesn’t like that. Sam’s responses are simply extensions of his own, and he can't follow a pattern he doesn’t recognize. Sam’s a puzzle he's put together himself, crooked pieces and all.

“Little boy grows up. And it’s sad, really, cause Mom died when you were a baby, and all you’ve got is your daddy and your big brother. Winchester threesome.” Candied grin, and a lewd wink, and Dean wants to climb over top of his brother to get to her.

“Your whole life, you wanted things. And it was so _hard_ not to have them. Fight every day not to just take. There’s your problem, right there.” Lilith gets close to Sammy, close enough that the hem of her dress brushes against the calf of Dean’s jeans.

“You’re allowed to take. It’s your birthright. Azazel gave it to you the moment he fed you his blood.” Sam’s body is in the same position it’s been in from the start, and Dean’s screaming, because he doesn’t understand.

“Doesn’t explain why I’m here.” Sam says dismissively, thread of strain in it that only Dean could pick up on.

“You weren’t ever gonna tap into this. We’re just here to give you a little push in the right direction.” Lilith is thirty-two daggers, and she directs them entirely at Sam. Sam laughs, and it loosens and tightens Dean’s bones in turn.

It’s not Sam’s regular laugh, deep and lingering, of course not, there’s no humor in it. It throws Dean off balance, plants him firmly in the column of items Dean cannot categorize about his little brother. Off-kilter, tilted gravitational pull.

“So you bring me to desecrated ground.” Dean flinches. Sam’s just winding up. “You give me a month, and you tell me to meet you at the site of a massacre, on a former church’s land.” His brother’s hands are tucked just behind his back, fingers of his right hand shivering minutely. He’s in motion, and Dean understands the implicit command to remain where he is.

“So you can bring something _back._ Question is, what do you want? What do you want so much that you’d spend all this time, just to get me?” Dean crosses his arms, for lack of anything else constructive to do.

“And then I thought to myself, what’s so difficult, that you needed a space this corrupted?” Lilith’s smile is hard on her face, brittle light.

Crowley has remained silent for most of this, backdrop to the symphony conducted before his eyes. He stands passively, arms motionless at his side.

“According to the Zohar,” Dean stiffens. A history lesson. Sam’s been thinking ahead of Dean, slotting links together even as he listened.

“You were animated by the light of Lucifer’s fall from Heaven. And your first husband, Adam, nice guy, good with kids.” Sam stops his movements, grins benevolently in her direction. Dean pops his mouth shut. Sam never does that. He never baits people. He’s exacting, never exasperating.

Dean’s knees lock into place, as if Sam can sense his confusion.

“He was just glowing with the Light of God. And that wouldn’t work, now would it?” Sam steps closer to her, words losing their teasing lilt. “You’re unclean.” She shivers, eyes misting towards milky white, a shade of color Dean’s never had the pleasure of seeing.

“Don’t skip the good parts,” she offers, mouth slightly quirked. Sam tips his head in acknowledgement. “You’re cast out. You’re unholy, not fit for Adam, or anything else, for that matter.” He says. “God makes Adam a new wife. And, of course, you’re a little jealous. He’s yours, after all.” Sam waves his hand in the air, the other still curled behind his back, hidden weapon.

“We know the rest. The fruit, their fall from grace, all of it, your doing.” Sam stops moving, the first time in half an hour, and Dean’s head aches, pulsating, because he can see Sam but he can’t find him, wants to discern his brother underneath the cloak he’s behind.

Dean blinks, can see out of his peripheral that Ruby is stirring, can tell that Crowley notices it as well. Her head raises and then thunks back down, splash into her own river of crimson.

“And God cursed you because of this.” Sam’s grin is a snake in his mouth, sinuous body and muscle, and Dean can’t look at it, raises his gaze to his brother's eyes.

“He’s cursed your seed.” Sam rubs his hands over his face, bright, child-light in his eyes. “They’ll live, but they die. They’re always murdered. By Eve’s children.” Dean shoves together the jigsaw in his own mind as fast as he’s able. Remembers everything Sam’s ever mentioned in passing, ever spoon-fed him on the topic.

“You want your father. You want to meet your Maker.” It takes Dean fourteen blank seconds to realize that it’s him who has spoken, interrupted Sam’s Machiavellian monologue.

His brother eyes him decisively, tiny Sam-smile peeking at the corner of his lips. Dean exhales, lungs expanding gratefully.

Sam’s finished speaking, for the moment. Said all he’s had to say on the topic. Dean snorts privately. They’d be better off keeping Sam talking. Sam sorts through all of his facts when he looks most at ease, when he looks harmless. Sam orchestrates murder amongst the mundane.

Lilith isn’t even playing at congeniality any longer, one hand is limp by her side and the other is punch-tight. Crowley moves for the first time, decisive step in her direction.

In a movement so fluid it makes Dean feel cumbersome, weighted ankles of a ballerina, Sam’s right hand shoots out, and Crowley’s body shudders through the air, blink-quick, and he’s pinned against the wall. His eyes flicker to red almost instantly, and Dean can hear the demon-infused growls crackling out of shorn vocal chords. He’s spread out, arms like a sacrifice, and Sam doesn’t even look up to see what he’s done.

Dean takes a cautious step forward.

“You underestimated me.” Sam shrugs, as if the matter is of no importance. “It’s an extension of my will, you’re right. And I’m not fighting it. I’m not fighting him.”

Dean’s eyes flick unwillingly to where Crowley’s head is thrashing back and forth, skin of his scalp chafing against aged brick.

“This is between you and me. You made it this way.” Sam steps backwards, cracks Crowley’s head against the wall with a solid smack, twitch of his index finger. He releases his hand just as easily as he utilized it, and Crowley slides down the wall in a quick slump, head lolling against his collarbone.

“See, that’s the problem you’re having. When you _want_ something too much, you stop paying attention to the little details.” Sam gestures at Ruby, who is shuffling to her knees, spitting blood onto the dirt-encrusted ground beneath her.

“She’s woke up fifteen minutes ago. She’s tried to stand six times.” Sam scrubs at the thin layer of stubble collecting on his chin. “Practice makes perfect.”

Dean doesn’t have the time or inclination to follow everything Sam is dishing out. Sam had already figured out what Lilith wanted, probably during her long-winded explanation of his powers. Dean knows that his initial response was honest. Sam didn’t know he could do it, probably would’ve accidentally used it before now.

Dean’s brow furrows. He decided now was the opportune time to practice, on a bitch he’s already injured?

Sam crosses his arms, and Ruby’s completely upright, deep breaths, eyes averted from Sam’s face. Which, Dean is thinking more often, is probably a wise choice.

“If this is between you and me, then let’s keep it between you and me. Even decks, Lilith.” Sam’s smile is wide open, and Dean is struck with how familiar it looks.

_Sammy, age seven, Scooby Doo marathon, peanut butter sticking to his hair in clumps._

_Sammy, age twelve, tutoring a girl from McDowell High School in Algebra._

_Sam, age 16, omega slick smeared across his chin, pointed look in Dean’s face._

He doesn’t have a classification for this smile, can’t categorize this Sam neatly into any box that he’s pre-created. This Sam didn’t exist, not for him, and that scares him. He’s known every incarnation of Sam to ever live, and there is a stranger, enveloped in his brother’s flesh.

But it’s Sammy.

Gap-toothed, and too short, stained glass eyes and sunlight.

Lilith’s eyes haven’t diverged from their cream-filled haze, and she’s stopped smiling entirely, only stares at Sam with an inscrutable glare, and he can’t decipher it, because he can’t see her fucking pupils.

When she does speak, her voice is toneless, and Dean takes a step forward, too uncomfortable to resist.

“You were born for this. But you don’t even know what that means, do you?” Sam’s smile dims, but isn't completely eradicated.

“No. But I’m sure you’ll show me.”

She turns, lioness on the prowl, and Sam motions to Ruby. “Don’t you wanna watch?” Sam’s voice remains surface-pleasant, but Dean can hear the hidden inflection, there is no option here, barely even the suggestion of a question.

Ruby’s head turns slowly, matted blood tangled in fine blonde strands, can see Crowley’s body, doll-bent against the wall.

“I’m coming.” There’s a mild spark of her customary sass in her voice, just enough to assuage Sam’s consuming gaze. “Walk with me.” Sam offers, grin hanging across his face. Dean takes seven steps forward, more like a slight run, and reaches out for Sam’s upper arm, digs his fingers in so tightly he feels the flesh give way under dull fingernails.

“Sam. Sam. I ain’t trying to question you, or fucking start a mutiny in the little Nazi state you got going on here, but what the fuck is this? What the hell are you doing, man?” Dean stutters over his words, doesn’t even know if he’s adequately portrayed the roiling terror he can feel congealing to his bones.

Sam looks confused, slanted eyes crinkling in worry. Dean can smell Alpha-concern, fine mist encircling him.

“Fucking stop it! Stop it!” Dean doesn’t know what else to ask Sam for, other than that, what he’s even telling him to stop doing. Sam’s face tenses, and then clouds, and finally settles into the face he’s been wearing since he first pushed through the decaying doors of Hell House.

“I need you to trust me.” Dean opens his mouth, gaping cavern, and then deflates, cold fingertips against overheated skin.

“I do. I trust you, Sammy. Only person I ever did.” Dean steps aside and Sam looks at him, fond look intermingling with the blankness of his eyes. “Stay ahead of me. I’ll worry if I can’t see you.” It’s the first time he’s said it so blatantly, without a hint of bashfulness, and Dean figures he can humor him, this time.

Ruby makes up the rear, and she’s been uncharacteristically silent this entire time. Sam turns to speak to her, but Dean doesn’t dare look backwards, he’s got to navigate the loose boards and cracks that make up the once wooden floor.

“Did you know?” Sam’s voice is level. He can hear the scrape of Ruby’s gait before she answers. “I knew enough. I knew we needed you here.” Her voice cracks, and Dean almost trips because of it. His hand is settled on his closest knife, small dagger, hooked to his waist.

“But me wanting her dead?” He hears Ruby hop around debris and follow him into a charred-looking corridor. Dean leans forward so he can keep Lilith in his sight, because she’s moving faster than she was previously. “That’s all me, Sam. And that hasn’t changed.”

There’s a bite to Ruby’s voice, but it’s different than he’s heard before, and he can’t tell if that’s better or worse.

Dean stutters to a stop, because Lilith has halted, and she’s dead center of a pentagram. There are candles at every point, some off-white, others speckled with crimson. The lines and angles are steeped in blood, perfect linear execution, and Dean can’t understand their faultless creation.

Sam’s suddenly ahead of him, and he scrambles to be at his brother’s side. In the center of the pentagram is a baby. It’s alive, but asleep, and as Dean leans forward, he thinks it’s a drugged sleep, with the way the pallor of its skin has a tainted hue.

Lilith smiles, tight lipped. “Howard County General Hospital isn’t far from here.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “You son of a bitch. That's your big plan? You just going around stealing people’s babies? I’ll fucking pump you full of lead--” Dean can barely stomach his own vitriol, he’s so incensed.

“This is why your godforsaken children always die!” Dean’s chest heaves and he wrenches away from Sam’s side. Sam’s not looking at him, but he’s stepped forward, a little between Dean and Lilith. Lilith’s face is strained but open, and she addresses Sam.

“Is he house-trained yet, Sam?” Dean feels invisible bands encircle his waist, sharpen tightly below his ribcage, so when he lunges forward like a rabid dog, his body can only jerk in place. “SAM!” Dean bites his tongue when his brother doesn’t respond, only cocks his head inquiringly at Lilith.

Ruby starts laughing in the background, same way she once screamed herself hoarse on terror and agony, and she doubles over.

“Magic words,” Ruby sputters, and there are actual tears of mirth glistening on her blood strewn cheeks.

Sam doesn’t acknowledge either of them in any way, and Dean can’t get used to that, struggles to reconcile himself. He hangs limply in his spot, waiting lethargically until Sam decides he’s calm enough to release.

“If you’re going to do it, let’s do it. You’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?” Ruby’s laugh drys up, barren river and soil, and Dean can’t help but to exchange a horrified look with her. He’s never seen Ruby less than composed, only once prior, and her eyes are slightly narrowed, but there’s a respect for Sam he’s not seen before.

She trusts him. Or, not quite that, but she trusts him to keep his promises.

Lilith flicks her wrist and the candles ignite simultaneously. The infant is swaddled in black and Sam pays it no heed, but Dean’s eyes seek it out, watch the way it's little fists curl in the open air, and thinks uncomfortably of the way that Dec sleeps, one fist outstretched at all times.

Dean swallows down the bile traveling up his throat.

_absens haeres non erit_

she says suddenly, and it’s not forceful, but her voice carries more poignancy than it ought to. He can feel that this is the room, this is the corner of desecrated earth where five girls were massacred, where Lilith intends to commit further degradation.

The candles sway in and out, flickering switch.

Sam releases his bonds but Dean doesn’t flinch, watches the child, whose eyes flicker open, they’re newborn blue, and Dean can scent his fear. Baby boy, smells of leaves and rain.

Dean unsheathes his knife, lets the tip of blade slice across his index finger.

Sam strides directly into the center of the circle, and Lilith glides back, right arm shooting out and sending Sam’s body flying, imminent projectile, into the lone standing wall in the open room. Ruby rolls out of the way and Dean sinks to his knees, head up.

“Sammy!” His brother is stuck to the wall, industrial adhesive, thrashes once and then stills, tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief.

The wind picks up around the makeshift arena, and the infant’s swaddling cloth flies open, chilled wind on pink-flushed skin.

Sam is motionless, of his own accord, and Dean knows if he makes a rash move, it’ll distract Sam, and that’ll be enough to get him killed.

Dean looks at the baby.

He can’t leave the fucking kid. Ruby’s beside him suddenly, one hand on his wrist. The wind is whipping about so violently that she has to scream to be heard, and Lilith’s voice has not increased in intensity but he can still hear her, plain as day.

_meo patri, absens haeres non erit_

Ruby looks at the child, feral bright of her eyes, and glares at Dean. “Don’t touch it! Don’t fucking touch it, you don’t know anything!” Dean knocks her back a step, crook of his elbow, and she keeps her eyes locked on his.

The child’s body arches, unnatural, small spine not meant to bend at such an angle. The fire from the candle suddenly drips from the wick and travels down the sides and spreads, coating the lines of crimson with small flashes of flame. Dean hops back, can’t kill her and turn his back on where Sam is hanging, hook of meat.

The baby is screaming, hoarse, top of his lungs, and Dean can see the flush from the flames igniting tender skin. It’s spine suddenly cracks, far too loud in the midst of the cacophony, and Dean’s knees buckle in revulsion, heavy breathing.

The corpse slumps back to the earth with a thump, baby-fat arm flopping into the dirt. Dean remains silent, his eyes are still open, wide and fruit wet, clumped lashes.

He hears Sam speak for the first time, and the flames making up the pentagram leap higher, candles all but dissolved beneath them. Lilith’s feet rise a quarter inch off of the ground, and her volume has finally increased.

Sam’s voice is quiet, and when he takes a quick look at his brother he can see the way his eyes are bright with his wolf. Odd mixture of green and gold, and he looks like a living crucifixion.

_cedere nescio_

It’s the first thing Dean can recognize. He could probably sort out the rest of the Latin, if he could think straight for a second, but he understands this, knows why Sammy chose it, but he doesn’t get it until Sam’s entire arm dislodges from its grip against the wall.

Dean can barely track the movement, it happens so quickly, but he can see the flash of silver as it streaks past Ruby’s exposed face and buries itself in Lilith’s throat, so brutally thrown that Dean can see the other end of the blade poking out through the back of her neck. Her eyes flicker with heaven-bright light, open mouth, righteous blaze extinguishes the words.

Sam’s body slides down the wall and his brother lands on his feet, dusts himself off gracefully.

Lilith remains suspended in animation, arms outstretched, bastardized Christ the Redeemer.

Ruby slides backwards, trips over her own feet and sprawls out on her ass, but Sam pays her no heed. He breaks the circle, foot sliding over flame, and the entire thing is extinguished in one blow. Lilith’s body flops into his open arms, and Sam’s singed boots are five inches from the infant corpse.

Dean can hear wheezing air, takes a second to understand that it belongs to him.

Sam holds her body all in one arm, blonde head bowing over his wrist. He twists the blade once and then removes it, allows her neck to slide backwards and then her remains crash to the floor, undignified heap, broken pieces of wood.

The silence is deafening, and Dean can still hear everything in his ears, murder of crows.

Sam’s gaze slides over him, heated but curosy, and then settles on Ruby’s hunched over form.

“Ruby.” She lifts her blonde head, and she doesn’t look frightened, exactly, but she looks necessarily wary. “Crowley’s down for the count, and I need some answers.” Dean bites his lip, realizes that Sam doesn’t sound any different from before. Doesn’t sound like he just murdered an original demon, just watched the sacrifice of an innocent.

“Why am I here?” The first hint of irritation slithers into this brother’s tone, and Dean crosses closer to him, regardless.

“You’re here, because she needs--needed you. Can’t bring Lucifer back without a sacrifice.” Sam throws a casual thumb at the infant body. “The child. So, what does that make me?” Sam’s face contorts. “She was going to kill me.” Sam purses his lips.

“An absent person will not be an heir.” Sam muses aloud. Dean blinks, understands that this is what she was chanting throughout. “What does that mean?” Dean asks.

Dean’s voice is not his own, and he clears his throat, steps right next to Sam. His brother brushes against him in reassurance, but Dean is not deterred. “Heir of what?”

Ruby’s eyes are wide, but she smiles nonetheless. “Lucifer’s heir. He’s been locked in the cage, for centuries. This is the only way to release him. It had to be her. She’s the direct result of the Fall.” Ruby’s voice is urgent, quickly tips into liquid insanity.

“Azazel was making heirs, for Lucifer. Potentials. There always had to be two, here, in a summoning space. Lilith and a special child.” Ruby shrugs. “You’re the only one left, Sam.” Sam flinches, demon-black blood sliding onto his palm from his unclean blade.

“So you tricked me here. You and Crowley.” Ruby grins, one tooth pink with a hint of blood. “Would you have come if it didn’t save him?” She nudges her chin in Dean’s direction. Sam growls, first legitimate hint of anger.

“But what’s the point? Did Crowley want to become his heir, instead of Lilith? But I had to be the one to kill her?” Ruby looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know what he wanted. He never told me anything. I only knew I had to get you here, to Hell House.” Ruby clasps her hands tights.

“I just wanted her fucking _dead._ ” Ruby offers, voice hoarse.

“The point is, only one heir can exist at a time.”

Dean doesn’t have to turn to remember that voice, sin-smooth monotone of his dreams, legend of his kids nightmares. Ruby’s body skids backwards, her feet dragging as whatever force Sam is imbued with tugs her a few feet away. Dean stumbles as Sam shoves his body behind, and Dean forcibly removes himself from that protection.

Cronan looks exactly the same, charcoal suit with near invisible pinstripes, metallic grey pocket-square. He smiles engagingly at Dean, and the fabulous control his brother has been exhibiting slips, and his snarl ripples loose and dissipates in the air.

“She knew that. She just expected it to be her.” Cronan tapped his finger against his thigh idly.

“She overestimated my brother, and underestimated me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning(s) for: graphic infant death/infant sacrifice (if you'd prefer for this scene to be abridged, shoot me a comment!)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS LIFE AFFIRMING SEX WITHIN.

Sam’s fingers itched to bind Dean, ensure he remained in place, but he had done enough of that today, regardless of whether or not it was for Dean’s protection.

His brother’s face was immaculate of expression, but his shoulders were stiff and hunched in, which was enough for Sam to take notice.

“Dean.”

“Don’t talk to me, Sam.”

Sam closed his eyes, felt the wire trip of fury trickle through Alpha.

“Dean, I need to explain.” The connection of his brother’s fist to his jaw caught him so quickly he stumbled backwards and popped his shoulder against the motel dresser, dry wood catching on the bone.

"You don't get to not tell me about shit! And you don't fucking get to treat me like a bitch and keep me in my goddamned place!" Dean's pulse is ticking in his throat and he's flushed pink up until his hairline.

Sam’s body convulses, and he’s fucking sick of this.

Tired as shit of his brother not listening. That’s the problem here. Dean’s never listening.

And Sam’s just about done talking.

His right hand is winding through Dean’s short hair before he knows what’s happening, and he can’t be sure if it's him dragging Dean closer or if he’s doing it by force of will. Sam knows he’s bigger than his brother, knew it with certainty as he watched himself shoot up as a teen, arm span twice as long, hands spanning Dean’s entire face.

His palm cradles the back of Dean’s head, and he snakes his left hand into the unbuttoned cleft of his brother’s shirt, and tugs, jerking Dean’s body to his own so quickly that their hipbones smack together.

Dean’s cheeks are tinted scarlet, and his eyes are luminous, blinking up at Sam with that mixture of confusion and contempt that Sam’s always found so damn maddening. His teeth split Dean’s lower lip as his mouth crashes into his brother’s and Dean makes somewhere between a growl and a mewl at the contact.

“Lemme hear it. I want that again.” Sam’s spitting nonsense, snakes out his tongue to dab at the small wound he’s made in the center of Dean’s swollen bottom lip. Dean’s eyes have darkened, part arousal, part rage, and Sam likes that. Can smell Dean’s reluctant acquiescence, his internal resistance. Smells like burnt honey and toasted marshmallows.

“Get the fuck offa me, Sam. Fuck you.”

The words twist uncomfortably in Sam’s stomach, bite at the lining like poison. Sam whips Dean around so quickly he hears his brother’s neck pop, and then he pulls his body flush against his own. He grinds his hips into the meat of Dean’s ass, listens for the sharp inhale that means Dean can feel it, feel the line of Sam’s dick nudging at his hole.

“I’ll be doing all the fucking, Dean, and you know it.” Sam presses the palm of his left hand on the nape of Dean’s neck and presses down, shoves so that his face is parallel to the ground.

“You don’t get to do that to me anymore. You can’t _shut me out.”_

Sam doesn’t recognize his own voice, the way Alpha is chafing at his brain, hurt-anger and snake venom. Sam feels like he’s sixteen all over again, too brittle in his own flesh, rubbed raw with the want of his brother. Consuming fires of hell sluicing through his veins.

Dean’s arms scrabble backwards, upside down, palms up, search for purchase on Sam’s jeans, but Sam shoves him forward a fraction, immediately regrets the loss of that firm ass against his dick, wants to rub his brother’s skin blistered.

“M’not shutting you out, Sam, but you gotta fucking listen to me--” Sam’s laugh doesn’t resemble mirth at all, and it makes Dean hush real quick, temporarily stalls his struggling.

“Everything I do, is because of you. I don’t fucking take two steps unless I know you’re coming with me.” Sam reaches around to the front of his brother, unbuckles his pants deftly and slides his hand through the slit in Dean's boxers, cups slim fingers around his brother’s dick. Dean jerks in place, pained mewl trickling from his throat. “Jesus, Sammy, one time I’m trying to have a conversation, here.”

Sam twists his index and thumb just below the head of his brother’s cock and juts his middle finger out to catch the predictable bead of precome that wells up.

He removes his hand entirely to push the finger past his brother’s lips, so forcefully that he hits the back of Dean’s throat and his brother gasps with the impact. Dean shivers, just like that, for a second, and Sam spreads his palm on Dean’s neck so that his thumb brushes against his brother’s pulse.

Dean sucks tentatively at the digit, and that’s all Sam needs, an allowance Dean shouldn’t have given. He runs the pad of his finger across Dean’s top row of teeth, and his brother groans lowly, wraps his tongue around the tip and really slurps this time. Sam’s pelvis jerks forward and slams into Dean’s ass, and his brother chokes as the movement shoves Sam’s finger back down his throat.

Sam drags the finger away and uses his spit-wet hand to shove Dean’s jeans down and off. He steps on the middle of the fabric with his boot, holds the pants firmly to the beige carpeting.

“Up and out.”

Dean complies gingerly, shucking the left leg out slowly. Sam releases Dean’s neck and pulls him into a standing position, hears Dean’s shudder of air as he finally breathes upright.

Alpha doesn’t allow it to last, and Sam shoves one broad palm into the center of Dean’s back, sends him hurtling on top of the King size bed, rumpled flower-print sheets and scattered pillows.

Dean’s one indignant noise, and he raises up on his elbows and gets his left knee underneath him, unintentionally spreading his ass to the cool of the room. Sam snarls once, strides closer to his brother and shoves up the flannel he’s still got tangled around his body.

“Stay the fuck down.” Sam doesn’t modulate the Alpha in his voice an iota, and he watches in dark satisfaction as Dean’s body crumples to the bed, like his muscles gave out on him. He can see the tremble in his brother’s limbs, and he crawls over top.

He rips the flannel by the seam, tearing paper, and shoves Dean’s arms out of the holes like one would to a baby, gentle but efficient.

Dean’s whimpering underneath him, small tremors in his body, and that’s the last thing that Sam wants. Sam wants his blood, wants him pliant and loved beneath him, but can’t stand fear from Dean. Not the man who has given him two beautiful sons, sacrificed soul and flesh.

“Stop it, baby.” He drapes his body entirely over Dean’s sweat-damp back, bites down on his own claim, not as brutally as the first time, but still harshly, suckles blood to the tip of the skin. He hums in arousal, grinds his denim-clad cock against Dean’s nakedness, and feels the fabric grow wet with slick.

Dean pushes his ass up into Sam’s dick, seeking friction, and they’re tiny, barely there shoves, and Dean’s eyes are screwed shut, fists wrapped in sheets.

“I love you, Dean.” Sam breathes, unbuttons his jeans and slips them just past his ass. He tugs his t-shirt up his chest and over his head, allows Dean to feel the Alpha hormones on his back. He nips at the claim again and Dean cries out, loudly, gentle wail that makes Sam stiffen so abruptly he has to squeeze at the base of his knot in fright.

“But I’m not sharing you, and I’m not losing you. If I gotta fuck you in the fucking mud for you to get that, I will.” Sam jerks Dean’s hips up just enough to snake his left forearm underneath for leverage. Dean’s gushing slick at a rate that would be almost alarming if Alpha wasn’t damn near preening from the involuntary praise. Sam leans closer and corkscrews his tongue into the furl, and Dean’s ass immediately meets his face, desperate instinct.

“Sam. Sam you ain’t gotta play with me. I _fuck_ I fucking get it.” Dean sounds asphyxiated, but he doesn’t sound like he _gets_ anything.

Sam rubs the stubble on his chin against the sloppy hole, watches it redden with the burn, the way Dean tries to scramble away but is unable to, Sam’s arm rigid against his lower abdomen. When Sam rises at last, Dean’s lashes are tear-soaked, and his mouth is so shiny and puffy that it’s sacrilegious to witness.

Sam lines up, takes a controlled breath, because Dean’s pregnancy had been so rough he couldn’t fuck his brother with abandon, couldn’t risk his already fragile health. Dean’s not 100%, but he’s also not full of Sam’s pups any longer, and his dick jerks at the thought of bruising Dean up, rupturing blood vessels and skin.

Sam drives home with one snap of his hips and the gasp it punches out of his brother is well worth the wait. He grabs ahold of the small amount of hair on his brother’s head and jerks. Dean’s neck immediately cocks back at an awkward degree, and Dean cries out, throaty sound at that angle.

“What was that?” Sam hisses, pummeling his brother back down into the bed while he maintains his grip on Dean’s hair. “Say it again. Musta missed it.” Dean groans, ass spasming tightly around his dick, and strives to take in one big breath.

“Don’ fucking know what you want from me, S’mmy,” his brother slurs out, incoherent with the brutal way Sam is punishing his body.

But now Alpha is livid, wants to scar his pretty mate up because he can, because every pound of flesh belongs to him, and he’s killed for it, and will do it again and again and again.

“You remember,” Sam says, punctuates the command with a vicious swivel of his hips.

“what it feels like to be mine.” Sam releases Dean’s neck and pushes his right hand under Dean’s chest to rake his fingernails over his brother’s hardened nipple, scraping it raw. “Next time you want to fucking ignore me, fucking leave me, I want you to remember this.”

Sam doesn’t know if what he’s saying makes any sense, but he’s not concerned about logic, all he wants is to see Dean split open and gaping, own the very thing he keeps bargaining for, continues breaking rules to keep.

Sam shoves in to the hilt and reflexively wraps his fingers around Dean’s neck to steady himself as he comes, aborted thrusts against the heat of his brother’s ass. His fingers tighten drastically with the release, and he feels Dean sputter with lost air and panic, and then his brother’s body spasms around him, orgasmic seizure, and he comes within a minute of Sam, hot come soaking the bed underneath Dean’s chest.

Sam stabs home once more before he pulls out, and Dean lets out an injured cry with the last thrust. Sam thrills to the sound, lightning down his spine, and he wants to eat up all those broken noises he pulls from his brother’s throat.

Dean’s body is trembling on the bed, and Sam can scent the confusion under sexual satisfaction, and it’s hard for him to breathe. Cloying cinnamon and fog.

“S’wrong, baby,” he says, flips Dean over expertly until he’s supine, right nipple chafed against the backdrop of seasoned skin. Dean’s eyes are rimmed in red, and his lungs rattle when he takes a deep breath.

“You’re Lucifer’s heir, Sam. You’re fucking Satan’s heir, because you made a deal for my life.” Dean glares at his brother, body arching prettily, against his will. “How the fuck can you be so calm about it? After what Cronan told you? After what he did?”

Sam braces his body on Dean’s upper thighs, and his brother winces but does nothing to dislodge his grip.

Remembers the way Cronan smiled so pretty at Dean, gentle compassion in his clear blue eyes. Sam would orchestrate his death for that alone, for the way he looked at Dean with something less than beneficence, but more than lust.

Cronan tugged out his pocket square, flapped it open in nonchalance and draped it gingerly over Lilith’s face, a strangely humane thing to do.

It was Dean who spoke first, and while not a surprising development, what he said certainly was.

“Your brother? What the hell are you saying?” Dean tried to move closer, give the man who had kidnapped him at his lowest point a piece of his mind, but Sam had blocked him unintentionally, the same way he’d been holding his brother back all night, by sheer willpower.

Cronan’s eyes slip to Sam’s, fond amusement in his tone.

“Samuel. I’d hoped to see you sooner.” Sam sighs, cloaks himself in anonymity and searches for the in-between space, where Alpha is close enough to be of help, but too far to cause harm.

His wolf is fairly self-satisfied, basking in the glow of murder and triumph, chariot races.

“You came to me. And it all worked out, didn’t it?” Sam’s smiling, his company grin, but he can’t feel it. Can barely see that his teeth are stretched in a grotesque parody.

“If he’d died,” Cronan gestures respectfully in Dean’s direction, “then you would be coming after me.” He shrugs, glances down at her corpse, which is already graying with decay. “Would’ve given me the time I needed to get rid of her, before this happened.”

Cronan looks genuinely regretful, slips his unoccupied hands into his pockets.

“You’ve become exactly what they created you to be.” Dean flinches in place, Sam notices, but does his level best to ignore the distress he can scent his brother radiating.

“If she failed,” Cronan glances down at the corpse once more, this time in disdain. “Now that she's failed," He amends, "you are supposed to pick up the mantle. You rule in his stead, but one day, you’re supposed to set him free. Unlock him.” Sam raises his brows. Fatal display of emotion, but that’s an unfortunate lack of finesse.

Cronan laughs, and it’s a bruised sound, styrofoam ripping. It’s not a sound he’s used to giving, and Dean grunts in the background.

“They made you their Boy King. You played right into their hands.” He says. “Lilith never had a weakness.” He cuts himself off, thoughtful, and then stumbles ahead. “She did, once, but they couldn’t use it. She’s a fool. Her weakness was her strength.”

Cronan shakes his head, jagged smile across his face once more. “You haven’t broken the Law yet, but you will. You’ll try and summon my brother, like thousands before you, and then I’ll have to intervene.” Cronan rubs his hands together drily.

“You’re my jurisdiction, now.” His eyes leave Sam’s easily, water through a sieve. He’s focused on Dean, with a single-mindedness that suggests that Sam was never even there.

“But you, Dean, you’re going to try. I could see that. It’s why I let him take you back. Why I let you live.” Cronan’s smile is definitely melancholy this time, and Sam’s mind is turning circles. He understands most of what the man is insinuating.

That, at some point in his future, Sam will try Cronan’s hand, and he’ll pay dearly for it.

Cronan crosses over to his brother, far closer than Sam would ever allow anyone to be, but it happens so quickly he doesn’t get the opportunity to act, is only left with the tangible taste of reaction as Cronan brushes his fingers against Dean’s colorless cheek.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dec looks like he’s spent the entire time they’ve been gone crying himself into a frenzy. His eyes are swollen, remarkably better than Dean expected, but still. Smells like illness, scent of burning toast.

Bobby looks like he’s exited an internment camp, while Ellen looks deliciously at ease, brown hair in a loose knot on her head, and Dec’s cries are fading even as Dean watches her bounce his son on her hip.

Pax’s nose is claret, tell-tale sign that he too has been crying, although he usually doesn’t start until Dec has been going strong for at least an hour.

Pax is curled up protectively in Bobby’s arms, hanging off of the man’s right forearm, soft caramel hair surprisingly tame against his head. The boy shifts in his sleep, nose wrinkling, and Dean’s heart loosens for the first time since all of this began.

Sam is right beside him, and then he sweeps in front of Dean, because Dec has started squirming the minute he saw his brother. He kicks his little legs in jerky motions, and stops almost instantly when Sam cradles his palm against his head and plucks him from Ellen’s grasp. Dean steps closer to press a kiss to his head and Dec settles completely after that.

Dean opens his arms for Pax and Bobby deposits him somewhat reluctantly, but with a tinge of gratitude. Dean balances Pax’s head against his collarbone and whispers over his head. Sam brushes fingertips against Pax's sleep-flushed cheeks.

“How were they?” Bobby snorts and takes his hat off to run his fingers through his sparse hair, something he refrains from doing, if at all possible. Ellen pops him in the shoulder blade and smiles, lantern bright. “They were perfect. Missed y’all, but what newborn wouldn’t?”

Sam smiles, and it’s such a gentle motion that Dean can’t look at it, because Sammy’ll never look that way again.

“How was Dec?” Sam asks, brazen grin, and Bobby huffs in his air. “Kid sounds like he’s screaming bloody murder. What’s that song you sing him to sleep? Fucking had to sing that, three days goin.’”

Dean glances reproachfully at his little brother.

“I told you to start weaning him off that. He can’t fucking go to college and need a lullaby every night.” Sam snorts so violently that Dec stirs briefly from where he’s been close to sleep on Sam’s shoulder. “Dean, I highly doubt he’ll want me anywhere near him at college, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Dean heaves a sigh, but the fight’s seeped out of him, and he wants to sleep. He wants to figure out what to do now, now that Sam’s gone and put this target on his own head, now that Sam is, in essence, what they hunt.

Wants to reconcile that he'll never come after Sam, never lay a hand on his brother that Sam doesn't allow.

Later that night, he watches as Sam puts the boys to bed, listens for Pax’s soft thump thump of his heart, the way he whimpers when Sam releases him. His brother presses a kiss to the scrunched face and Dec is comatose, has been throwing a temper tantrum for three days, and he’s out of fucks to give.

His feather-thin hair is sticking straight up on one side, and Sam nudges it back down with two fingers.

Dean’s sitting on the edge of their bed, fists tangled in wine dark sheets, when Sam shuffles in, body bent with exhaustion, lines around his eyes, crows feet.

Dean rests his face in his hands and blinks into his palms, broken bones and rough breaths.

Sam doesn’t look at him when he settles on his own side, and Dean turns his torso slightly so he can speak. “Sammy, you gotta tell me what to do, here. This ain’t my call.” His voice comes out too low, and he knows Sam can sense the difference, sees it in the way his brother’s body bows forward, callused palms on denim.

“You know what I am, Dean. Question is, what’re you gonna do about it?” Sam isn’t facing him, won’t face him, Dean realizes, and suddenly that’s not okay, because Dean levers himself upward and turns around the knobbed wooden post of the bed so that he’s kneeling in front of his brother.

“Me? This ain’t my ball game, Sam. You gotta talk to me. I swear to God, I’m listening.” Sam pushes himself back, modicum of space between he and his brother.

He’s a bowstring, every line of his body is too tight, stiff and warped, and Dean remembers well enough not to touch.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” Dean wants to press, wants Sam to enlighten him, can’t know until he tells, but he knows he’s not going to get anywhere like that. Sam’s locked, and Dean’ll be hard pressed to get him to admit anything, he’s shuttered blinds and despair.

“Alright. Alright, Sammy. You gotta rest. Tomorrow you can see the boys--maybe we’ll figure something out.”

It’s the most lackluster pep talk he’s ever given, but he’s out of ideas, out of options, and Sam’s holding himself broken, shards of glass too tiny to stick back together, lost pieces in translation.

Next morning finds Sam in Bobby’s office, leather bound books and aging brocaded furniture. Bobby’s driven back to the Roadhouse with Ellen, and Dean encouraged it, is pretty sure Bobby is sporting a few more grey hairs than he held before they left for Maryland.

Dec is perched on Sam’s leg, and his brother is rocking it gently beneath Dec’s diapered butt. Dec has a toy car underneath his mouth, held courtesy of Sam’s palm, apparently for entertainment's sake. He’s drooling everywhere, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice. His arm is banded around Declan’s chest, and the kid seems pretty sturdy, all things considered.

Dean bumps into the doorframe while endeavoring to rub sleep from his eyes, and blinks in Sam’s direction. His brother looks up once, fondly, and returns his attention to the heavy volume he’s purusing. Dean recognizes it at a glance, because when Sam was fourteen, he carried it around everywhere, with accompanying notes and color coded post its.

Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, by Johann Weyer. Dean thought he’d seen the last of it, didn’t understand Sam’s obsession with the thing, his ability to recite hierarchy’s on command. Hindered air and smoke right lungs when he looks at it.

Sam clears his throat and Dec gurgles in response. Sam presses a kiss to the crown of his son’s head before looking directly at Dean.

“Pax is still asleep. Which is weird, cause they usually wake up at the same time.” Sam’s brow furrows as if he’s just now recognizing how off-putting this is, and Dean smiles lazily, perches himself on the edge of Bobby’s aging armchair, scarred wood and mothballs.

“He was tired. Bobby told me he cried himself sick, kid’s not used to it.” Dean raises his brows in Dec’s general direction. “I don’t even think Dec could sleep if he didn’t yell himself out first.” Sam nods and then his eyes flick downward.

“So,” he begins lowly, and Dean lets himself fall over the arm and completely in the chair, because he knows he’s about to get a history lesson.

“Been up, really early, actually, took Dec with me, you know how antsy he gets in the morning. Anyway, I started with this.” He nudges the book he’s reading with his thumb and Dean hums in acknowledgement. “Cronan told us that his real name wasn’t for us to know.”

Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No means yes, of course.” Dean’s not really angry, he’s curious though, all things considered, because the man wants him dead, and seems unruffled about his abilities to do just that.

That kind of cool-confidence doesn’t come from anything but practice. He’s accustomed to getting his way and doesn’t understand the opposite of that. Can’t fathom failure, mud dark and thick, inescapable.

“I’m looking at the levels of Hell’s monarchy, but, the problem is, I’m not getting anything. And it’s fucked up, because I don’t have anything to go by.” Dec pops a spit bubble and Dean leans forward, catching his son in his arms. Dec squirms once and then nuzzles into his neck.

Sam sets the shiny car down on the desk and wipes a damp hand onto his jeans.

“It’s not like snakes are following him around, or he’s chanting in Latin, so I only know he’s fucking powerful, and demons are scared of him.” Sam steeples his fingers. “Ruby was fucking terrified, man.” Dean nods, switches Dec to the other arm.

“So go with that. He isn’t gonna give us anything obvious. What’s he done that’s off? What’s hard to explain?” Dean rises momentarily and nods at Sam. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna get Pax.”

He hands Dec back off to Sam and his brother isn’t looking at him, his left hand is clenched tightly against the corner of wood of his desk and Dec looks sluggish as Sam curves his downy head against his neck with his right arm.

Pax is awake, just like Dean scented from downstairs, and his hands are flailing in little fists. He’s not worked up yet, but he is restless, and Dean scoops him up, allows Pax to curl his small hand around Dean’s index finger. His amber eyes blink lazily with leftover sleep, and Dean kisses his nose absently.

He finds Sam in the same position, but there’s a different book, a grimoire maybe, on top of the other, and Dean doesn’t recognize it.

“You were right. You were right.” Dean smiles sardonically as Pax tightens his grip on his finger. “That’s not news. What am I right about this time?” Sam’s not smiling, and Dean’s muscles tighten on instinct. “See, we’ve been limiting ourselves. You know what’s strange, Dean?”

Dean shifts Pax to his other hip and sits back down in his former armchair. “S’wrong, Sammy?”

Sam flips two pages and then looks up, body rigid and cool in deference to Dec, but his knuckles are bone white, tornado eyes.

“He covered her face. He covered Lilith’s face when he saw she was dead.” Dean nods, slowly, doesn’t know where this is going. “Alright, that’s fucking weird, but I don’t see how it matches up.” Sam grunts. “Honestly, me either. All I know is that he was respectful to her. What demon do you know that’s got a conscience like that?”

Dean shakes his head in understanding. “Not a damn one. Hell ripped that right out of ‘em.” He says. “Exactly. See, he cares about you.” Alpha growl shreds it’s way from Sam’s throat, and Dean’s omega only winces once.

“Easy, kid. He doesn’t give a shit about me.” Dean cocks his head to the side. “Gets under your skin though, doesn’t it?” Sam waves a hand dismissively, almost knocks a sheath of aged papers to the ground.

“That’s not it. That’s not the point, at least. He let you go, Dean.” Sam pulls Dec so he’s centered in the middle of his lap.

"I can't think, cause all I want to do it gut him for taking you, for looking at you like he does." Sam hisses the words, velcro teeth.

“He wasn’t making any sense, fuck, I need to understand this.” Dean knows that’s Sam’s worst fear, the idea that he won’t get something, that he’ll perish for a lack of knowledge.

Dean’s about to answer, tell Sam that he doesn’t need to solve the world today, he’s got time, when there’s a scream from outside that makes Pax jerk in his arms and Dec snort-sniffles in the way he does when he’s gearing his body up for a good scream.

Sam’s instantly in motion, deposits Dec in Dean’s open arm with the same fluidity they use in the field. Dean locks his knees together so he can’t instinctively follow his brother in order to cover him. He’s unused to remaining behind, but he can’t take the boys anywhere where they could be harmed.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rocks Dec on his knee and clucks noisily down in Paxton’s face. There’s a scuffle, and then the tell-tale snarl of Sam's Alpha, and then abrupt silence.

Dean holds his breath, doesn’t want to scent fear and agitate the boys.

He smells the instant that Sam re-enters the house, hears the scrape of his boots, muttered curses as he bumps into walls. Sam pops his head inside the doorframe and Dean widens his eyes just enough to convey the what the fuck, that he can’t yell out.

Sam grins, but it’s strained, the same smile he used to use when he wanted to go to the drive in with Stacy McClellan, but Dean would never allow it, considering the fact that they were in feral werewolf county, and it was a full moon night.

“What the fuck did you do, man?” Sam strides further into the room and rolls his eyes. “It’s one of mine. He got caught in the Trap and couldn’t get out. Burnt himself on salt and the holy water Bobby has flowing under the house.”

Dean rises, boys relatively complacent, Dec’s knocking his knee into Paxton’s foot, and looks shocked when Pax nudges him back.

“One of yours? Sam--” He’s cut off as his brother narrows his eyes, irritation, scent of salt and running water.

“Put the boys upstairs for a second so I can show you.” Sam’s voice is low, and toneless, and Dean remembers how Sam used to put this voice on when he was being careful. When he didn’t want to give himself away.

Dean does as he’s told, more because he needs somewhere safe for the twins before he can face whatever monstrosity Sam’s about to introduce him to.

It’s a kid.

He’s got about four inches on the boy, and his hair is brown-blonde, dirty hay, and he looks like he’s on the wrong side of a good meal. His eyes are big, whether that’s out of fear or genetics, Dean can’t tell. He’s sitting uncomfortably in the center of a Devil’s Trap, legs tucked under his chin.

Dean can scent the smoky sulfur and the lingering smell of his host, like cream.

Dean ignores the boy completely to glare at Sam.

“What the fuck? Sam, don’t you fucking dare bring that shit here.” Dean’s voice is tight, like barbed wire, and Sam’s holding himself too tight, like he’s locked, and Dean knows he’s doing it for him.

“Sammy, I swear to God--” his brother cuts him off, click of pulse in his throat. Dean can see the one vein that plagues him in his temple, and pushes out his air impatiently.

“This is Kade.” Sam squats down to his knees, so he’s closer to eye level with the boy, who seems scared shitless of his predicament.

“Ruby brought him to Maryland, I asked for him--” Sam wrinkles his brow. “You were there, weren’t you?” Kade nods once, short enough to be acceptable, and Dean doesn’t miss the fact that the boy doesn’t look less terrified now that Sam’s increased his proximity.

“She, ah, she wouldn’t let me inside. Told me to wait.” Kade runs a shivering hand through his hair and his eyes roam everywhere but at Sam’s face.

“No one came back for me. I felt ‘em leave, but I didn’t know where they went.” Kade blinks at Sam for the first time, cocks his head to the side.

“You’re different. I can feel you. That’s how I found you. I followed it.” Dean’s head jerks from Kade’s face to Sam’s and he’s dismayed to see that Sam is nodding, pinched look and fight-ready fists. He smells like far-off rain, birds flying south, fast as they can.

“I know.”

Dean wants desperately to speak, but he doesn’t know what the fuck to say, or even whether or not Sam’ll have any answers for him.

“They’re gonna kill Crowley, sir. I don’t know where anybody is, and I’ve been avoiding hunters, but I’m shit out of luck.”

Sam stands, almost knocks Dean backwards with the violence of the motion. “Let him burn.” Kade scrambles to his feet, coltish limbs, and looks at him beseechingly. “Lilith’s dead, sir, they know you did it! They’re asking for you!” Kade presses his hands to his head and screws his eyes shut.

“I can fucking hear ‘em, day and night!” Dean watches as Sam reaches out his hand for the kid's shoulder, twig thin, broken like winter.

Dean prides himself on not so much as flinching as Sam makes contact with the kid's bones, and he watches his brother and the boy disappear into thin air. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Hell’s not burning.

This is news to Sam, and he thinks it’s rather arbitrary at this point in time, but he can’t help but notice it regardless.

Kade’s arm is wrapped around Sam’s wrist, and Sam saves a second to shake the boy off in impatience. His grip is noose-tight, and Sam wonders idly if he’ll have lasting effects due to the hold.

He feels as if he should be more perturbed at the recent state of affairs, but he knows where he is, and to some extent, he knows he teleported here.

Remembers the way it felt to connect to Kade's bird thin shoulder and then blink, salvage yard a distant memory, the weight of body grounded in this separate place.

A place so very clearly not on the same plane of Earth, but it's thick with sin, and when Sam concentrates he can hear nightmarish howls, dirty thick, detached entity.

“This what you wanted?” This is directed to Kade, and the boy bows his soot-covered hair and leans away from Sam. “No--no, sir, I didn’t. They’re asking for you. You killed Lilith and you’re supposed to be here.” He wrings his hands out before him, cracked nails, and Sam can see the dirt caught under the creases of his palms.

He blinks slowly, and his eyes flicker to black.

“Can see better, like this,” he mutters, apologetic look at Sam’s profile, as if he knows Sam hates seeing the bottomless eyes, look like spiders crawling over flesh.

He feels how heavy the air is, not oppressive, like heat, but heavy with death. He knows now, that there’s an express disconnect with the way life thrums and the way death feels, and he wonders how he’s been able to ignore it all his life.

Kade is dead beside him, demonic soul laced in the body of a rapidly dying host. He scents the tendril-bright hum of life coursing through Kade’s veins, and see the black thread of decay extinguishing it.

Sam cocks his head to the left.

“It’s dying. You want it to die or you gonna wear the corpse?”

Kade stutter steps, he’s been walking just ahead of Sam, because he knows where everything is, and Sam is apparently, a Very Important Person.

“M’gonna keep it,” he says, lowly, and Sam doesn’t miss the misplaced emotion, way it rings like a crooked bell in the open air.

He raises his head as he sees a building designed with a spiral minaret rising before him. He wouldn’t call the foundation of the structure, earth, per say, because he knows that nothing can grow here, there’s nothing fertile, but the closest approximation is probably concrete, or packed dirt.

It grows thinner at the top, needle point, and tapers off into a spire at the tip. Sam notices that it is designed with at least thirty setbacks, which decrease in frequency closer to the top. It’s polished silver-grey, blunted finish, and Sam can say that he is sufficiently impressed.

Kade skids to a halt, shades his eyes as he looks up, and there’s no sun, not here, but there’s a significant source of light, one that Sam can’t pinpoint the location of.

“Wasn’t like this. Lilith has--” Kade speaks haltingly, rushes through his sentence like water through a sieve, “It was a castle. Like, medieval.” Kade snorts, first form of amusement Sam’s ever witnessed the boy make. “There was a moat.”

Sam wrinkles his brow, shoves a hand in his suit pocket.

“Why’s it changed?”

Kade glances at him, mouth agape.

“I think--I think it changes according to who's King.” His head slips sideways. “This what you wanted, right sir?”

Sam reaches a hand around to the nape of his neck and gingerly massages. He can't recollect thinking that he wanted this sleek, luxury model, but he can't deny that it appeals to him.

It's imposing, but it's not ostentatious. There aren't any bells and whistles on the structure, and he likes the way it looks, like a jagged knife reaching up to Hell-sky.

Sam blinks at Kade. "You need to clean up, if we're going in." Kade wrinkles his brow, and from one flicker of the eye to the next, Kade looks cleaner than Sam's ever seen him, hair is parted on the corner, fingers shower-pristine.

White dress shirt, first button undone and black slacks. Sam is taken aback for the first time since they arrived, because he's aware that he did that.

He wanted the boy to look exactly like this, fashioned it in his mind's eye casually. Wanted the simple look Kade's sporting, and he's thought it into existence.

Kade snaps his mouth shut and gestures to Sam. "You did it to yourself, too." He pauses. "You're in a suit."

Sam spares a look down his body, eyes humming over the expanse coolly.

The jacket he's wearing is slim fit, single button, and it's got a lined interior. The entire affair is steel grey and he's wearing a solid satin silver tie, comfortably fastened around his neck.

Sam smirks sardonically. "Looks like we're heading up, then."

He steps in front of Kade and the boy slides just behind and to the right, and Sam removes his hand from the slim trousers he's procured.

The only thing in the polished lobby is a row of elevators, four, to be specific, polished to a dull metallic shine. Sam's dress shoes click in the dead air, and he knows they're going to the top floor, the only place he wants to be.

There are 157 floors and Sam thinks he might have committed overkill with his mental construction, but he figures he can scale down, if he's so inclined.

The doors slide open at the top, soundless, and there is redwood in this lobby, and the receptionist desk is made of it, edges and corners outlined in stainless steel.

And Sam gets his second shock of the day, when Ruby lifts her blonde head, hair tied into a punch tight bun on the center of her scalp.

She's dressed in a wine dark blouse, and Sam can't see her lower half, but he would bet anything that she has on a pencil skirt, because that's what he would want.

She smiles, but the smile is crooked, like Ruby's patching herself up, missing pieces. "Nice to see you decided to come around, Sam." The words are hissed through a colander of courtesy, and Sam hums, deep.

Her hands fly to her neck, sudden and brisk, and Sam watches in detached fascination, as the first tendril of hell-smoke curdles from her throat, languorous, as Sam plucks it, strand by strand.

She's scratching at her neck, dirt warm scent of blood as it catches in her manicured nails. Kade is shaking beside him, steady buzz of nervous energy.

Sam can see it curling up to the pointed ceiling, and it's far off, but by the time it reaches the top, the host will be empty of Ruby's essence.

Sam's index flutters and the smoke descends back down her throat with an audible snap, and Ruby's head flexes upright, eyes moon large, rot and omega fright, rotted peaches.

"I'm trigger happy today, Ruby. I wouldn't test it again."

Ruby opens her mouth, tomato flushed, and closes it tightly. "They're waiting for you, sir. They'll be happy to know you're here." The words are stilted, and Sam is unused to Ruby treating him with any form of deference.

"Nice seeing you, Ruby." Ruby presses tissues to the mild lacerations she's made on her own neck, and Sam motions to Kade offhandedly.

"Wait here." He blinks in Ruby's direction. "Watch out for her."

The doors are made of frosted glass, trimmed in the same sleek steel that Sam's subconscious seems to favor.

The conference table is made of mahogany, polished to a glossy sheen, and the chairs are black leather, nondescript. There are seven seats, and every one but the head is filled, expectant faces.

At first glance, they look like the typical company board, but when Sam expends a little effort, he can see the faces flicker between human host and demon flesh, serpentine scales and fangs, crooked backs and bat wings.

They're unpleasant to look at, Sam understands that this is the remnant of his humanity, those faces are not meant for flesh to see.

A human was never supposed to win this throne in lieu of a demon, and he feels woefully unprepared. He's also angry, but Alpha has maintained a very appropriate stance, small growl trickling through fur.

He glances at a man with the head of a hawk, but Sam allows his eyes to unfocus, and in its place is a man with coiffed black hair and natural brown eyes. They flick from red and then back, and he's on the right hand of what Sam assumes is his seat.

Sam crosses quietly, and he's never been in the company of such silence. It's a weighted feeling, onerous in its insistence, low hanging fruit, ripe for the plucking.

Sam is silent when he settles, folds his hands together over top of his section of the table.

"Now that I'm here," he says, languidly, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

He’s unprepared for the cacophony of sound that erupts, the way every seemingly well-bred, middle-aged man clamors for his attention, and his permission. He holds up one hand, isn’t keen on yelling until he’s pushed, and when he’s close to that edge, no one needs to be nearby.

Alpha is flustered by the commotion, and Sam takes him firmly in hand, smoother transition than it has been in the past. His wolf nips at him, chafed at the submission, but heels, saves his wrath for a cause better suited.

Hawked man is the first to speak after Sam’s imposed silence, and Sam turns toward him halfway, interested in what he might be about to say.

“I am Duke Pruflas. I’ve got command of twenty-six legions, and because of this, I’ve always been afforded a place at your inner circle, my liege.” Sam stifles a snort. This one is pompous, inflated on his own sense of grandiosity, and Sam will enjoy cutting him down to size, in due time.

He opens his mouth to speak further, but Sam is really enjoying the impromptu introductions, and would rather like to know who he’s going to be dealing with, if he’s to have this forced position.

The man next to him has rather unruly dark brown hair, and his eyes are pale-grey, unnatural and unmoving. “I’m Duke Barbatos,” he says, sullenly, realizing that Sam expects no more than that, and certainly will not tolerate any less.

“Thirty legions under my command.” Sam sniffs at the shortness of his tone, but allows it, wants a feel for the hierarchy before he sets about dismantling it. He’s got the sense that heisn’t allowed to be anything but this, anymore, and while it chafes at him, bothers him that he’s got to be King of the Wasteland, the unnatural authority, he sets it aside.

He will do well at this. He’s organized, and methodical. There’s no one here he would feel remorse for, were they to die. The feeling is enlightening, and terrifying in the same breath. His eyes slide further down, to a demon who is slumped casually in his seat. His hair is golden and his eyes are the color of the sky at the end of a great storm, wind-rain and debris.

His mouth is pink, and Sam thinks that this host must have been very hard-won. He can scent the man underneath the demon, an Alpha, he can smell that much. The demon blinks listlessly and smiles, pretty-shark teeth.

“Great Duke Dantalion, at your service.” He winks, and leans his head on his hand. “Thirty six legions.” He reclines back into his seat, apparently done giving his autobiography, and Sam feels the first spark of interest since this began. This one doesn’t give a fuck about him, either way or the other. He lets his gaze drift, alighting on a shorter man with auburn hair and a cleft chin.

“Earl Ipos, thirty six legions, and once this is finished, My King, I really need to discuss some important issues--” Sam’s irritated, he’s not keen on being interrupted, not when he needs to establish the upper hand so badly.

“Be quiet, unless you want to deal with my other issues, afterwards.” Sam isn’t livid yet, finds it easy to maintain his inflectionless tone, and the man snaps his mouth shut, tips of his ears tinged red.

Sam listens to Duke Focalor introduce himself, and he’s a skinny man with thirty legions under his control. Great Duke Aym is last, and he peaks interest in Sam as well, dry tongue and light brown hair, casually stiff way he holds his body. Twenty-six under his command, and Sam thinks he might rule with an iron will.

Sam holds his silence as he ponders, eyes glossing over his board, and he thinks he may need to rearrange some affairs. He won’t maintain the same hierarchy as the deceased before him.

“I’m leaving today,” he begins, in a tone that brooks no argument, “but, I have the same rules that I’ve had from the start, and it would probably be helpful for you to take note.” Dantalion leans in his direction, careful movement.

“My family's off limits. Don't touch them, don't mention them." Sam taps his chin with his thumb. "Fastest way to death is to ignore that."

"Secondly, don't get comfortable. All of you are replaceable." Sam can feel the tension roll off of the table, banked waves on the shore, and Alpha rises in defense and Sam allows it.

He doesn't know what he's dealing with here, and didn't spare a second to think that maybe he should tread lightly. He has no friends, only enemies, and his only certainty is that he can feel the frisson of power slicing through bone. Knows that he's stronger than anyone here.

Known it since he allowed Lilith to suffocate to death on Heaven's light, since he was able to stop and start things with a thought, with the idea of a want.

Barbatos has his hands tightly in front of him, knuckles pale, and it's Dantalion that speaks up, and Sam can't muster up any surprise.

"We've just had a revolution, boys. Want another?" Sam can hear the coolness of his tone, frigid Ice Age, but Dantalion's smiling wide, open face. Ipos nods. "I don't want anything. We'll wait and see, like you said."

Sam remains silent as he rises, watches as Aym inclines his head in respect.

There's no honor among thieves, but he's seemed to have piqued the interest of a few under his command, and he'll take the grace as it flows.

Sam crosses to the slightly obscured doors, and they swing open, and Sam is noticing the direct correlation between desire and action and it's unnerving and useful, at best.

Kade is waiting where he was last left, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat. Ruby is uncharacteristically silent, but her hair is hanging softly around her shoulders.

Kade accompanies him to the elevator, as Sam has not instructed him to do otherwise, and he keeps his body ramrod straight.

Sam wonders if that's his will being imposed on the boy, or if Kade is simply aware that Sam cannot afford to tolerate weakness in the new Empire he's been given.

Kade waits until they're back in the lobby before he speaks, lips bitten bloody, and Sam is irritated by his reactions to the kid, not exactly concern, but more than ambivalence, and he's thinking of Dean alone with Pax and Dec.

He's remembering that he needs to be home, doesn't need to leave his family exposed when he's got a new host of acquaintances at his back.

"What are you gonna do? Are you--" Kade wraps his arms around his middle. "You coming back, this time?"

Sam rests a heavy hand on Kade's shoulder. "Where's Crowley?" The boy stiffens but doesn't make a move to displace Sam's hand. "He's in the dungeon."

Kade swallows thickly. "Guess it's not a dungeon anymore, it's whatever you decided it should be." Sam smiles. "Jail, then. How long has he been there?"

Kade shrugs. "Since you killed Lilith." He says. "He wants a trial. Wants _justice_." Kade says this with dripping contempt, makes Sam wonder how Crowley treated the boy when he wasn't around.

He had never wanted Kade there in the first place, hated Sam's first act that wasn't under his lease, bitter taste of whiskey in his throat.

Kade waves one hand in the air in anxiety. "Crowley was working with her. I knew that much, but no one tells me anything." Sam knows Kade is a young one, can't tell why he's more humane than anything Sam has so far witnessed.

Now is not the time to garner that information, but he files it away, because it seems pertinent for a later date.

He thinks about Dean again, tight clutch of guilt in his chest and it's _suffocation_

Jesus, feels just like forbidden air and tears, and he keeps his spine from doubling over with no small amount of effort.

His vision clears. He can still feel the way he can't breathe, the constriction, but now he can't see the Fortune 500 decor, but he sees his brother, middle of their nursery. Pax is gurgling on his back in his crib, and Dec is screaming, can hear the way the kid won't calm down.

Dean's eyes are wide, and his hair is stuck to his forehead. He's pacing, one hand soothing on Dec's back, so broad it covers the entirety.

The vision fades and Sam can feel himself resurface, pain in his chest more subdued, scent of rotted meat in his nostrils.

Kade moves out of his range, voice sympathetic. "It's harder, here. To feel like that. It hurts." Sam nods, jaw clicking like a separate pulse. Realizes it's been easier to be malicious and unconcerned, but what he feels for his family will never connect with that.

"I want you with Crowley when I come back," and Sam Alpha-orders, teeth grinding painfully. "Don't leave his side."

Kade nods, bobble-head excitement, and he backs up even further from Sam, bloodshot eyes.

Sam straightens his lapel reflexively, and thinks it's hilarious that the only person he can remotely trust is a kid that he's taken out of the pan and put back in the flames.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

When Sam returns home, it’s been a few hours. Sam tells him he’s been gone a week, and he’s sorry he left them alone so long, but it took him awhile to figure out how to get back.

He says this bitterly, and his countenance is darkened, low-hanging storm.

Dean’s face goes slack, he knows it does, but it hasn’t even been a full day. Is Sam so fucked up he’s got no sense of time?

And then, it all goes to Hell.

Quite literally, apparently.

Sam is dressed like Brad Pitt’s stylist jacked off on his body, sleek lines, emphasizing all that Alpha height, violent and imposing, threatening package. He tugs the tie loose at his neck, and there’s a smell about him that Dean can’t place.

Smells warm, but Dean can’t think of any further adjectives to describe it.

“You were where.”

Dean asks drily, pushes both of Sam’s sons into his open arms

_as if that’ll make him stay_

and watches, sick thrill, as Sam nuzzles his face into sleeping foreheads. Pax dropped off as soon as Dec cried himself into unconsciousness. Dec’s small fist is pressed into Pax’s cheek, and Sam gently returns the appendage to Dec’s yellow blanket.

“Hell.” Sam doesn’t look up with this confession, and Dean watches him clutch the boys tighter, as if somehow that’ll save himself. Watches Sam breathe heavy over Paxton’s hair, light fluff moving with the exhalation.

Dean narrows his eyes, leans against the cream colors of Dec’s crib, can see the giraffes hanging from his mobile, phantom swings from when Dean recently turned it off.

“Come again? You look--untortured.”

Sam raises his eyes, adjusts his grip on the twins. “M’Lucifer’s heir, Dean, you think anything down there has the power to touch me?” Dean stiffens, just like that, uncomfortable bars digging into his spine. “Can’t--Sammy you can’t say it like that, like it’s some real thing we gotta do.”

Sam stands and deposits them both into Pax’s crib, side by side, small heads knocking slightly together and then settling.

“What do you mean, something we have to do?” Sam’s face is incredulous, chill of first frost. “I don’t have a choice!”

Sam leans back on his heels and crosses his arms, bracing his body against the full crib and facing his brother.

“I don’t want it. But we never knew it was gonna end up this way.” He says. “I thought I’d have to kill Lilith, then kill Crowley and Ruby, cause there’s no way they’d keep up their end of the deal.” He pushes one free hand into the pocket of that tailored suit and Dean grimaces.

“It was more about me being a fucking blood kid than anything else.” Sam rocks himself forward so that he’s standing on the flat of his feet.

“I don’t regret it. I’ll do it all over again.” Dean unfolds his arms, because he can’t be angry, Sam went into this one as blind as him, and he can’t help what this job entails. He doesn’t have to like it, though, doesn’t have to enjoy the way it’s going to swallow his brother whole.

“Fuck, Sammy, I know you would, but how the fuck are we supposed to do this? You can’t be their dad, and my--my fucking Alpha, I guess, and be King.” Sam looks enraged, first time since his return, and Dean locks his legs in place.

“I can’t?” Sam strides closer, one and a half steps takes him right up into Dean’s sphere of personal space , tips of hair brushing against Dean’s forehead.

“I can have anything I want.” Sam cups the side of Dean’s face and Dean flinches at the contact, so close, and Sam’s eyes look wolf-hungry, starved, Alpha scent of propriety that he hasn’t smelled since he was claimed. Steel bones and wrapped lungs.

“They gave me this. They didn’t mean to, but it’s mine, now.” Sam angles Dean’s neck back and up, slots their mouths together and Dean’s lips pop open gently as Sam tangles his tongue within, runs the tip against the ridges on the roof of Dean’s mouth.

He retreats, only to bite at the bottom of Dean’s lower lip and gnaw it sore. Dean arches into the touch, moans despite himself and then pulls away, braces his hands on Sam’s, admittedly impressive, pecs. “M’not having sex with you like two feet away from our kids.”

Sam grunts. “You’re no fun.” Dean raises one eyebrow. “I’m a shit ton of fun, I just got a few morals that haven’t been completely destroyed yet.”

Dean shrugs halfheartedly. He really is down for almost anything, but he’s never had kids before now, and he’s pretty sure that having intercourse with them even close to nearby violates some sort of Biblical law. Also, it kind of squicks him out.

He knows Sam isn’t keen on it either, but his brother is looking at him with that soft look that he’s been wearing more often than ever before, eyes candle-bright, even when he catches Dean noticing that he’s watching.

“I’m gonna have everything I want, Dean. And they’re going to give it to me.”

Dean slides out from under the shadow of Sam and walks out of the open nursery door to their room, and snags the baby monitor from the small nightstand. Sam’s quick on his heels, but Dean doesn’t look backwards as he hurries downstairs, shoves the unwieldy device as far into his back pocket as he can.

He stops in the living room and slumps onto the brown couch, whether it’s brown by trade or age, he, Bobby and Sam can never agree.

“Sam, it ain’t right, don’t you know it’s not supposed to be like this?” Dean feels like he’s talking to a brick wall, impenetrable, and he’s not even wearing it down, there’s not a trace of erosion.

Sam undoes the button of his suit jacket and slides it off, drapes it on the back of the patterned armchair that Dean usually favors.

His eyes don’t waver from Dean’s face as he takes off his cuff links

_Sam’s never owned cuff links in all his life, not even for prom_

He rolls the bottoms of his dress shirt to mid-elbow, and then gently tugs his slacks up by the ironed creases and settles into the armchair, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “Nothing in our life is _supposed_ to be like this, Dean.”

Sam leans forward, drags elbows on thighs.

“Technically, Dad made it a sure thing that I was never supposed to have you.”

Dean gnaws on his already kiss-swollen lip and twitches with the pain. “That’s not what this is about, man, and you know it. M’talking about the fact that you’re acting like--this is something you want.”

Sam laughs, hollow, but humored, and Dean sighs, lets his fingers curl into uncomfortable fists. “I don’t want it Dean, but I’m not gonna ignore it, either.” He says. “You know something we’ve never had, not in all our lives?”

Dean looks up at Sam, cocks his head to the left.

“Control, Dean. Every bad thing that’s ever happened to us has been cause someone else had more power, and more control than we did.” Dean opens his mouth in a rebuttal, but it flops like an asphyxiated fish and he closes his lips slowly.

“I got fed with fucking demon blood when I was a baby, Dean, cause none of us had the power to stop it.” Sam pauses. “Dad watched Mom burn on my ceiling because, what the hell was he supposed to do about it?”

Sam stands up, strides so close to Dean that Dean reels backwards, protectively, Sam’s moving so silently now, panther-dark grace.

“And I had to make a crossroads deal, kill an original demon, and become the King of _Hell_ , because I didn’t have a choice. I had to play the _game_.” When Sam smiles, it’s a natural weapon, his teeth look like poison, and Dean doesn’t think there’s any true joy behind it, thinks there’s just the thread of satisfaction.

“They can’t hurt me. Not anymore. They can’t do anything that I don’t _allow_.” Dean doesn’t like that sound, the way his brother is dripping honey-slick with achievement. This is something he didn’t even know Sam wanted. Something he thought Sam had long since reconciled himself to.

“Sam. What are you talking about? You’re running around in circles, man.” Dean grits this last out, knows that Sam is making more sense than Dean even wants to begin to admit, but he’s gotta hear it. He’s got to let his brother get this out, because he doesn’t want to operate under a delusion.

Sam steps away from him, center of the room, and Dean glances over at the monitor, which has remained silent, and for that Dean is grateful. He doesn’t think he can face their anxiety when Sam’s causing his blood pressure to rise by simply breathing.

Dean watches Sam for a second, the way he’s casually standing, one hand in his pocket, the other aimlessly knocking against his thigh.

Sam’s smile widens, and he gestures in Dean’s direction. “Look at yourself.” Dean’s face ranges from confusion, to irritation, because, fuck, Sam, we can’t all be vanishing to Hell, they do have two kids to look after, and then curdling astonishment, because that’s not what he was wearing.

He looks sort of like Sam does, but softer, which Dean kind of resents. His slacks are biege and his shirt is a very dark green, bordering on black. It’s western style, which Dean doesn’t mind, that much easier to take off.

He ruminates over this, rolls it around on his tongue like licorice, when he startles back against the couch, knobs of his spine wincing in discomfort.

“You do that, Sam?”

Sam sucks his teeth and nods in the silence.

“That’s what I’m telling you, Dean. They’re piss fucking mad that one of Azazel’s kids actually won.” He spits the sentence out with venom, and it wafts into the air, and Dean only recoils internally. Sam just fucking changed his attire with, what, a thought? Compounded with the fact that he can apparently dematerialize at will, Dean reasons he’s in shock. That’s the only rational explanation for why he’s not terrified.

“You should see what I’ve made.” Sam continues, sinks down next to him, and Dean is proud of himself for not inching away, not cowering about the way he can feel the steady hum of power surging through flesh and bone, the way it’s ignited, envelopes Dean against his will.

“Y’see, Dean, I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything you ever fucking wanted, and if you don’t know that by now, you’re blind.”

Dean snorts complacently and fiddles with the sleeves of his unfamiliar shirt. “M’not an idiot Sam, I got that one, loud and clear.”

Sam tugs Dean close, tucks his head underneath his chin and Dean feels the tremor that passes through his little brother’s body, the way his heart rate slows and enters the territory of something normal. Dean grits his teeth, and remembers, ill-opportune time, the way John looked when he was dying.

Last thing he said to him, about Sammy, last thing he told him to accomplish.

Dean huffs out a wet sound, because that’s something he’ll never be able to do, and the fact that he’d rolled it around in his head, like he was capable of the act, says more about his delusions than it ever could, for Sammy.

“Dean, I gotta have you safe. And if sometimes that pisses you off, then you’re just gonna have to be pissed off--” Sam tightens his arms instinctively, just as Dean puts his back into the effort of squirming away from Sam’s vice-grip, chinese finger trap arms.

“I told you that before. You and my boys?” Sam’s hands clench in his hair and Dean’s swimming in the prickly feeling of emotion, about to smother in it, and Jesus Christ does he need air to survive-

“There’s nothing I’m not gonna do. There’s not a damn thing I won’t kill.” Dean waits a beat before sitting up, and Sam allows it. Dean sighs, heavy, from the bottom of his toes, and thinks Sam might be all talked out, is unpleasantly perturbed to realize he’s wrong.

“I don’t want to do whatever I want.” Lower, so Dean strains to hear, pivots his body so he can fully absorb Sam’s words, “But I will do whatever I have to.”

Dean’s been letting Sam deliver his monologue, with varied intermissions, and he knows his brother well enough to understand that the kid’s expecting him to say something.

“You can’t be what you are, when we got the kids, Sam. What’s their life gonna be like?” Dean raises his voice, forearms shaking.

“What are they supposed to do? You gonna keep ‘em safe from you, too?”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

He scents it in the air, first off, hollow crack of Sam’s bones realigning with the shift. Sam can’t possibly be verging towards the Change, not with his fucking children in the house--Dean shoves at him mightily, all elbow, knocks him back four steps.

Knows he’ll never be able to push Sam out of the house, onto dying grass and earth, where it’s safe. He hears a prickle of noise from the monitor.

They’re scared. They have fear-scent and rage in the wind, and it all smells like flaming wood and kerosene, and Sam’s got himself locked down tight. He’s hunched over slightly, shoulders bent into himself, solitary phalanx.

His muscles are straining at the expensive fabric, and Dean can hear the seams pop, one by one, practice gunshots.

Sam’s not looking at him, and Dean knows if he looks up, his brother’s eyes will be lion’s mane, color he hasn’t seen so vibrantly since Sam was a new Alpha, brawn with no restraint.

“Don’t you ever say that again. Don’t ever tell me you don’t think they’re **safe with me.”**

Dean stumbles backwards, direction of stairs, cause he can hear Dec begin to whimper, without aid of the monitor. When he turns around, once, as he flounders upstairs toward Dec’s plaintive wails, Sam’s not where he left him.

-

Sam doesn’t come back that night, and when he does return, first thing in the morning, he hasn’t used his fancy new Hell powers to rustle up a different outfit. He looks mostly clean, smudge of dirt on the collar of his white dress shirt, but he’s otherwise unharmed.

He doesn’t look at Dean when he passes their bedroom, even though Dean’s left the door wide open so he’d be able to tell the minute his brother came home.

He strides purposefully into the boys’ room, and smiles when he sees they’re lying together, hands and feet twitching in sleep. He purses his lips to see that Pax has tear stains on his cheeks, and gently rubs them in with the edge of his thumb.

“Not like Pax to cry,” Sam whispers, to no one in particular. Dean snorts.

“He does when you’re angry. Or haven’t you noticed that, yet?” Dean didn’t mean to antagonize him the second he came home, but the protective way that Sam stiffens doesn’t lower Dean’s heart rate any.

“I don’t wanna fight, man.” Dean slumps against the doorframe, watching Sam watch their kids.

“Then don’t.” Sam hisses, unexpected bite in his voice.

Dean sighs, so heavy he can’t think about concealing it, limp once it touches the air. “Can’t you see why I’m fucking scared, Sammy?” He hates thinking it, hates saying it even worse, but Dean’s gotta bare his soul, the only way Sam’s gonna listen to him.

Clockwork, Sam looks up, even though his fingers keep tracing patterns over baby smooth skin.

“Dean, I get why you’re scared of them, but I’m not _them,_ Dean. I don’t understand why you’re scared of me.”

Dean doesn’t want to tell him the ins and outs, doesn’t want the hollow platitudes that come with trying to coddle him, the way Sam will flounder his way into a story, send Alpha pheromones his way in an attempt at comfort.

Sam’s too close to the matter. He’ll never see. And if he sees, he’ll never understand.

The moment passes, thankfully, and when Sam sheds his clothes later that night and tangles his body, predictably, into Dean’s space, forcing Dean’s ass into his crotch, his brother breathes like nothing happened, like they click together perfectly, same as they’ve always done.

Only difference is, now Dean is more wary of that symmetry, the way the key hangs in the lock.

Dean wakes up alone, Sam’s pillow cold next to his face, so he knows his brother has been up for some time. He checks the nursery and the boys aren’t in it, and Dean shuffles downstairs, knows they’re up, gurgling at Sam.

They’re in their playpen, Bobby made it for them, entire thing is one extensive ward, soft blue fabrics and hidden springs, even though they’re not coordinated enough to touch, yet.

Sam’s sitting awkwardly, one foot dangling next to their supine bodies, and they kick legs reflexively, little control over the motion. The other half of Sam is resting in a stiff backed chair, one that Dean rarely sees, because it’s usually covered by various books.

“D’you remember when we were talking about what was different about Cronan?”

Dean nods, steps closer to ensure that Sam doesn’t accidentally mash tiny fingers with his bare foot, but he should know better. That half of Sam is statue-still, doesn’t even flinch when small fists nudge it in play.

“Lilith didn’t have a consort, you know that? She ruled, alone.” Dean sniffs. “Alright, bitch liked her power. Connect that with Cronan?”

Sam pushes a book to the edge of the wide desk and thumps another open over top.

“I just couldn’t get over the fact that he covered her face. You’d only do that for someone you gave a fuck about.” Dean scoots closer to Sam, leans down briefly to press a kiss to each individual face of his children. He kisses Sam soundly, too, because he’s in the mood, and his brother runs hot all over, clears his throat four times.

“He loved her,” Dean says shortly, realizing he was stupid not to think of that sooner. There was affection, when he talked about her. Sam slaps his fist on the table and Dean’s eyes slide downward, but Pax and Dec look relatively undisturbed.

“So I thought about it. Who could she have loved that would still be able to give a shit about her?” He says. “Who was powerful enough for her to consider being with?” Dean wedges his way onto Sam’s lap and wiggles under his arm, because there are no chairs closer and he wants to apologize to Sam but he doesn’t know how to fix the broken-nasty words that came out of his mouth, laced the air like sewage.

Sam’s one arm tugs him close, back to chest, and he lowers his voice more intimately.

“We already thought that most demons couldn’t show emotions like that. Not the loving kind, you know?” Dean nods, back of his scalp brushing Sam’s cheek.

“Lilith’s old, too. So what could be as old as her, and still be able to love?” Dean tries to face Sam, viper sharp, but Sam locks him in, little effort, and Dean will never stop _hating_ that. Sam’s voice is hot excited, because he’s already discovered what Dean is about to tell him, the kid already knows.

“I couldn’t sleep, man, and I needed to think. I can’t ask the board--” Dean furrows his brow, he’s not sure what Sam means by that, but he’s not one to disrupt the flow, “because they’ve gotta know that I don’t need them.”

Dean hums in agreement anyway, because that’s what Sam seems to expect.

“He’s not a demon at all.”

Sam flips the page and Dean watches Sam’s eyes skim, is always taken aback at the finesse Sam has always extended to his studies, the way he can absorb a text at a glance. Dean’s no slouch, can read with the best of them, but he feels like Sam’s in another dimension with it.

Dean’ll never reach.

Sam stabs his finger at a word and Dean leans forward, follows the line.

Dean hangs his head so low it clunks against the table, and this time, the boys seem mildly irritated.

“Fucking Archangel.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise at the end! Also, some time has passed.

Sam wants for things to go his way, just once, but, as it turns out, even the King of Hell is subject to some manner of uncertainty. He never says Cronan’s true name, remembers the angel’s threat.

_It’s not for you_

He’s not prepared for that sort of confrontation, not yet.

He’s been King for a year, and, even Dean has to admit, nothing has really changed on the homefront.

What Dean doesn’t know, is that he’s worked damn hard to make that so. He’s hidden every scheduled demon patrol from his brother. Doesn’t know that Sam routinely teaches trusted entities about how to break past the wards lining the house, where to climb so that they’re not inadvertently stuck in a Trap.

Sam kills them off every few weeks and begins again, so the house that Sam created for them in Louisiana isn’t routinely recognized, or threatened by demons gone rogue.

Dean’s allowed (begged) to pick the location for their new home, didn’t care one way or the other, or so Sam thought. It’s late night and Sam had only been King for half a year at that time, but he was used to no sleep, considering the fact that the twins were teething, and were actually Hell on earth.

Dean accused Sam of vanishing just so he didn’t have to deal with it.

Sam thinks that he’s kept Dean sheltered so well, that sometimes his brother forgets what it is he does for a living, forgets that Sam changes clothes when he comes home, so that Dean can’t see how saturated he is with blood and broken bits of marrow and fecal matter.

So Dean can’t see how good he is when his hands are dirty, the way he and Dantalion have the same fighting speed, how he won’t go into battle without his Great Duke. How Sam’s been right, so far, and he’s weeded out the snakes in his garden.

Killed some, demoted others, but Focalor, Aym and Dantalion remain. Ipos has potential, but he’s a little squirrelly for Sam’s taste, and Dantalion tells him, unkindly, because Danny’s a bastard like that, sometimes, that Ipos would lick his own asshole if he thought it would shit on his command.

Dean asks about it on occasion, and he thinks his brother wants to know, wants to be involved, damn themselves from Heaven’s light altogether, but Sam never tells him anything substantial.

Sam’s taken victory baths, submerged himself in legions of demon blood, and the blood of those who may have been more innocent than he’ll ever speak of. Dean needs to stay the way he is. Dean’s not pure, he’s done enough harm, but he’s not the rotten core that Sam’s become, and he’d like it to remain that way.

They don’t hunt, obviously. The community knows about Sam, as a whole, and they’ve tried to kill him, multiple times.

Can’t hunt what he’s become.

Sam recalls the day it all came out, when a hunter managed to summon a Greater Demon, who, just happened to be Sam’s Great Duke, Aym. Remembers talking to the tall man, who was, incidentally, polishing a battle ax that he’d last used in war a thousand years prior.

And then he was gone, but not in the way he usually teleported, hiss of flame and smoke, because Aym loves the burn, and while he’s dry with every other aspect of his character, he likes a little flourish when he exits.

It’s like he was jerked out of existence, and Sam screams for Dantalion, doesn’t have the patience to call for him in a more subdued manner, not when Aym’s disappeared without a trace, mid-sentence. He always dresses in grey, head to toe, no matter what Sam’s told him otherwise about the look.

Dantalion’s in all black, his style is more partial to Sam’s and Sam presses a hand to his shoulder and closes his eyes, reaches out across the network that connects Sam and Hell, threads of communication and exposure that he’ll hide from Dean until his dying day.

They teleport together, purpose of the physical connection, and when they arrive, blind-darkness and the dank smell of underground, Aym is locked in a Trap and an overlaying Key of Solomon, and Dantalion hisses before he’s even close to it.

“M’not gonna be much help, Sam. As much as I want the flesh to fall from my bones.” Lackadaisical smile, teeth and charm, but he looks consciously at Aym, and allows his eyes to flicker to blood. Aym’s eyes flick back in response and when Sam crosses the Circles, the Hunter becomes visible.

He’s a healthy distance away from the Greater Demon, and Aym looks mildly bored, if nothing else. Sam huffs in disdain. Maybe, a few months ago, he would have tried something like this, but binding and locking a Great Duke would take considerable more power than this old man’s got.

He’s hunched over, surrounded by what Sam assumes are blessed candles, signifying Holy Light. Regular demons would be harmed by this, but Aym will only feel mild discomfort, at best. There’s nothing here powerful enough to hold Aym, and he honestly barely needs Dantalion, or Sam’s aid, for that matter.

Aym holds court with Sam, and when Sam hears the dry-dust sound of his voice reverberate through his mind, flashing red tethers as the connection is utilized, Sam snorts under his breath.

“Absolutely not.” Sam sends the message back and watches Aym’s eyes wheedle at him.

Dantalion scratches the back of his neck in irritation. “Not fair, Aym. Network’s open for all of us. King’s not the only one who should get to know the plan.” Sam watches in detached amusement as Dantalion’s eyes shift to wound red, and his real face shutters back and forth between Sam’s eyes.

Sam is unimpressed. It’s a King-perk, he’s reasoned, that allows him to see what no other human can, the true faces of the demons he works with. They frightened him in the beginning, and they’d scented it on him, the human innocence and vulnerability that an undamned soul had been unable to hide.

It was more akin to a parlor trick now, and Danny in particular vacillated back and forth when he was struggling to control his temper, something he was never in short supply of. “Aym wants to show our guest his Face.”

Dantalion grins, and he’s got the mouth of a viper, and were Sam unused to the salacious preen, he would recoil. Alpha postures violently, and Sam allows his own eyes to flicker to gold, can pull Alpha out of his pocket at will.

Alpha thrives on the violence, the decay, and he’s more amenable to Sam’s wishes than ever before.

If Sam’s honest, he’s let him out to play.

“Then let him, My Liege,” Dantalion says, sickly sweet, words laced through with contempt. “He probably thinks he’s captured a Lesser.” Dantalion’s face is vodka-smooth of emotion, big eyes blinking into Sam’s.

“He could’ve asked for a Legion.” Sam snorts. “Aym would never ask for that. Not for a hunter.” Dantalion steps in the direction of the Key of Solomon, winces as the proximity sends uncomfortable pain into his bones.

“But I would.”

Sam knows that, knows that if Danny had his way, every battle would operate under a scorched earth policy, and he would swim his way through rivers of blood to reach the finish line. Dantalion’s never fully sated until he’s watched the light drain from someone’s eyes, and it really doesn’t matter whose.

It’s at this point that the hunter realizes he’s not alone, and looks up at Sam with a measure of incredulity, and then his face softens into something Sam recognizes as relief.

And Sam thinks, offhandedly, severed limb, removed from the body it grew out of, that this man is wrong, and there’s no reason for allayed fears.

“Winchester. Thought you were out of the hunt for good once you got a family.” Sam can’t recall who this man is, middle aged, dark brown-black hair and a swirling mustache. Knees too old for the kneeling he’s probably been doing for the summoning, hair streaked with silver.

It’s not surprising that he knows who Sam is. After all, they’re venerable legends in the community, and if anyone’s heard the name Winchester, they know about John’s boys. Sam smiles, and it’s like a rusty door hinge, it’s harder to mean it, or when it isn’t directed at his three.

“I am out. Life’s no place for a family.”

The man has begun looking at him strangely, and Sam straightens his spine. He’s in a three piece suit, charcoal grey, and he’s not wearing a tie today, so the top two buttons are left exposed. He’s got one hand twitching in his pocket, and he knows Dantalion is breathing sulfur somewhere behind him.

He doesn’t look anything like a hunter.

The man rises to his feet, heavy movement, stones in his chest.

“How’d you get here? This ain’t an easy place to come across, and you ain’t hunting, so I don’t know why you’d be in Washington.” Sam watches him struggle to slot the pieces together, it’s almost criminal to witness the struggle, water from a rock.

He hears Dantalion huff out a bark of laughter, and the hunter’s eyes narrow.

“What’s the deal, Winchester?”

Sam stands to his full height, pulls his right hand from his pocket. Aym stills completely, and Sam hadn’t noticed that he’d been swaying gently from side to side. “I don’t want this to get messy.” Sam inclines his head in the hunter’s direction, charming grin.

“You’ve got one of mine, and if you return him to me, no harm, no foul.” The man’s face is indignant, rapidly peaking towards red flush, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “One a yours? Like, what, you caught it before me?”

Sam sighs, twitches his index, and every single candle is extinguished, and the only light source is the natural that’s peeking through the smudged window, high in the corner of the basement.

The hunter stumbles backwards. “The hell was that? What the hell is this?”

“Let him out.” Sam really, truly, just wants Aym released so they can leave, and he’ll play damage control with the man later, get close enough to wipe his mind clean of the last few hours, but the man doesn’t want to play nice, or fair, for that matter.

He leans down, accidentally knocks at the weathered book that Sam knows holds the exorcism that he thinks will expel Aym from his host’s body.

The problem is, it’s not going to be easy to separate him, considering his power and age, and Aym’s been wearing his suit longer than the man’s probably been alive.

“Look at me.” That’s Aym’s voice, dry and firm, and Sam steps forward, ignores Dantalion as he grasps at his suit sleeve.

“Aym.” Sam says his name warningly, he’s not above punishment, even to his favorites, and he sees Aym hesitate, weigh the value of insubordination over his own satisfaction. His eyes are steadily red, they haven’t flickered back to brown once, and Sam’s patient, but it’s a thin thread, and when it stretches too far, it’s liable to snap.

The hunter has secured the book in callused hands, and he’s looking at Sam as if he’s the ghost. “You protecting this demon, you son ofa bitch?” Alpha growls, gallops to the forefront of Sam’s brain and leans forward, ever ready.

He wants this one. Alpha isn’t keen on disrespect, not anymore.

Sam slides his hand back in his pocket.

“Aym.” Sam says, dispassionate.

Dantalion is suddenly right beside him, eyes hell-bright, mouth twitching with preemptive glee.

Aym steps closer to the hunter, who is beginning to chant, as close to the edge of the Circles as he dares. When the hunter glances up, the book slides from his hands and onto the concrete, and Sam flutters one finger and the entire volume slams shut, brown leather and yellowed-pages, and skids across the room to thump in a corner.

The man begins to howl, and Dantalion starts to laugh at the same time, fat droplets of tears collecting on his eyelashes.

Sam focuses his pupils, and watches as Aym’s three faces slide into view. The first is that of a serpent, dark green, fangs set in his large mouth, wide, yellowed eyes. His tongue slithers out and forwards, almost close enough to flick against the hunter’s skin.

The second reveals itself faster than the first, as it is that of a man, a handsome man, not unlike Aym’s host, broad forehead and square jawline, head of wavy brown hair.

The third is the last, and it’s of a cat, feral and well-fed, black all over but a spot of grey on its tail. It’s teeth are sharpened to a fine point, and when it yowls, it’s at war with the snake’s hiss. All three heads vy for immediate attention, and they all strike out to attack the hunter, who has prostrated himself on the ground.

“Please! For the Love of God, make it stop, Please! I can’t see! I can’t fucking see!” Dantalion stalks closer, plays with the shining tip of the blade in his hand. He wants to look up close.

Sam follows, knocks Dantalion out of the way so he can see the hunter’s eyes, black caverns where his vision used to reside. He’s still crying, somehow, and he isn’t screaming anymore, though his body is curled up tight on itself, protective til the last.

Sam sighs, feels like bricks are inlaid with his bones, and he blinks once at the man as he turns sharply on his heels to face Aym.

“Enough. He’s down.” Aym’s Form recedes instantaneously, and Sam breaks the Circles easily, not caring to watch as Aym steps out of them gracefully.

“I gave you the chance. Remember that.” This is the last Sam offers the man as they disappear.

Dantalion curses at him for three days straight, and it’s only when Sam forcibly chokes him that he relents. He maintains that it was foolhardy to leave the hunter alive, even if he was blind and battered.

Sam should’ve listened.

When they start to come after him, begin to try and figure out how to summon the King of Hell, it’s because the hunter, man named Greg McCray, couldn’t say anything but his name when they finally found him. When they broke into his basement and rescued him, three days later, tried to put him back to rights, the only thing Greg would say was

“Sam Winchester.”

So, they found out. Half a year into his reign, and he’s surprised it lasted as long as it did.

They know who he is, and what he is, but they don’t know why he is, and they’ll never care enough to ask.

So when Sam lays next to Dean, and watches him sleep, breathes in the clean scent of home and purity, knows he’s got the smell of brimstone in his hair and his pores, and Dean won’t touch him until he’s washed it out.

Dean fell asleep right when Sam came home, one kiss and he was out like a light, and it’s Sam’s turn with the boys tomorrow, they’ve got a schedule set up, because Dean goes out and does whatever it is he does.

Sam can track him, where he goes, he’s connected to him through the network, and there are always some of his people around, and Sam doesn’t care to expose them to Dean, if he can help it. His brother is safe and that’s all Sam cares about.

He glances at his boys, middle of their bedroom, chubby legs and sun-kissed cheeks. They’re so much bigger than they used to be, and they can speak, and walk, and it amazes Sam that they’ve kept them alive this long.

Dec learned to walk first, at only nine months, and Dean maintains that it was sheer frustration with not being able to get around that did it. Sam thinks his boy is brilliant, and he’s just naturally gifted. Paxton learned about two weeks later, and Sam believes he knew all the time, but Pax has always been more patient than his big brother.

Dec’s first word was fire, probably because he heard Papa and Daddy arguing about it all night, the way Sam came home smelling. Dean never brings it up anymore, mostly because he’s damn irritated that Dec claimed that word as his own.

Pax spoke first, however, and his word was Dean. Sam thinks it’s the most precious thing in the world, and Dean snorts and calls him a fucking chick, but Sam knows it’s ridiculously special. Now Pax calls Dean Papa, as he should, but he went for a week, repeating his given name over and over, and Sam’ll never tire of that.

Right now they’re on the floor in front of him, Dec is stacking his blocks carefully and then gleefully destroying them, and then flopping on his diapered butt to rebuild. Pax will sometimes add a block or two to whatever Dec is constructing, but he’s mostly been emptying and then refilling the container that their blocks came in.

They toddle in his direction when he calls for them, and Dec is first, even though he falls, once. Pax settles on his knee, a little squirmy, but generally his amiable self.

Sam rocks them back and forth, glances up at the way Dean’s face is pressed tight against his pillow, body tucked in, and thinks that he’s finally gotten everything he’s always wanted. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> So, I've been hanging on to this picture from the beginning, because this is exactly how I picture the twins in my mind. I'm sure you can figure out which is which from this photograph.
> 
> Anyway, visit courtneykeim.com if you'd like to creep, she's an amazing photographer and I follow her work regardless, but these lovely boys aren't my property!


	13. Chapter 13

Dean knows it's his day, according to the schedule, but he's hard pressed to leave his family, because he’s aware of the fact that they’re never able to spend all of their time together anymore.

Sam's sprawled out in the center of their bed, robin blue sheets tangled just above his waist, leaving the defined planes of his back exposed to Dean's view. Dean climbs over top his brother, brackets his legs around Sam’s slim waist and kisses his way down the tanned slope of Sam’s back.

Sam flips over so suddenly, Dean’s nonplussed, knows it’s hunter reflex that’s got him moving so quickly, but it sends a shock of blood down to his dick regardless. He blushes when Sam’s face curves up, sleep-slack smile as he scents Dean’s slick, lemonade-stand sugar.

“Gonna leave without saying good morning?”

Dean allows himself to grind down on Sam’s dick, which is suddenly roughly poking at his hole, dancing against the damp wetness of his sleep pants. Sam shoves at the bottoms roughly, and Dean slaps his hands away and pulls them down himself.

He shivers at the glance of coolness against fevered skin, and he feels his hole spasm in anticipation. He he pulls Sam’s cock out just far enough, hard crest over the top of his pants, and sinks down to the hilt, nasty squelch, and Sam’s air leaves him so violently his back contorts.

“Dean, baby, holy _fuck--”_

But Dean doesn’t stop, doesn't even slow down, and Sam's hands lock tight around his hips, bruises and trips of light, and Sam's neck is sweat-slick and thrown back.

Dean fucks himself so hard he's crying, ugly-pretty all over flushed cheeks, and Sam's babbling and cursing in the same breath, beggary and prayers.

“Just _stay,_ Dean, all day, like this. Keep you locked on m’knot--” His brother’s voice is slurred, syrup sticky with the way he’s grinding his hips up, thick swell of his knot struggling with the fragile skin of Dean’s rim. He wants, so much, needs to hang off of his brother’s dick and smother in his scent.

Dean’s living and dying, all at once.

Sam thinks he doesn't know, and he's insulted at the fact that his brother could find him so dense, so willing to live in his own world that he wouldn't be aware of what's occurring right under his nose.

Waits for Sam to come home every night, has gotten accustomed to the thrum of air just before Sam appears. It's something Dean doesn't think his brother is cognizant of, the frisson of power he emits whenever he exits or arrives.

After the first time Sam came home, bloodied from head to toe, what Dean recognized as shattered bone lining his lapel, viscous clumps of blood slicking his hairline, he’d made sure the boys were far away from the front door of the house whenever Daddy came back.

He’d told Sam he wanted to move soon after that, partially because he could no longer look Bobby in the face and remain under his roof.

It’s the only home his kids have ever known, and the loss of it wears on Dean to this day.

Bobby doesn’t understand it.

He’s better than he was before, better than the windstorm of anger and mistrust, and most of all, betrayal. Remembers how Bobby took him aside, eyes suspiciously wet and grabbed at his hands. More frail than Dean was used to, almost feeble in their disbelief.

“Your Daddy’d lose his mind if he knew. Not John’s boys. Not Sammy.”

Dean sat down with him, same couch he and Sammy had helped him move in, summer of ‘98, sweat-tacky shirts and yellow dust on their bellies.

“He didn’t mean to, Bobby. You know he’d never do it on purpose. He didn’t know.” Dean’s excuses sound hollow and crooked to his own ears, but that’s the truth. It’s as much of the truth as he’s been afforded, but no one wants to hear it.

Dean can’t understand why they want to believe that Sammy Winchester was born deranged, how they can think that the baby that was raised on motor oil and Kansas could have ever become the monster they’ve constructed in their minds.

But most of all, he wonders if he should’ve let fate alone, let Jake Talley’s knife remain in Sam’s back, watch him drain out under the sky.

He wonders if there's any scenario in which he could’ve.

This begins and ends with him, and he’s got no reason to place all the blame on Sam, when he should’ve been the one to accept culpability. He’s never been good with change.

The house in Baton Rouge, Sam built, wonder of his own mind. He’d been so good, so attuned to his senses, he'd constructed it right next to Dean, resting in their own bed in Sioux Falls, not even in front of the plot of land like he would have needed to be in months prior.

When they arrive there, by moving truck, Dean’s not risking the safety of the twins via teleportation

_doesn’t want Hell to touch them_

Dean’s almost blown away by what he sees. The house is split level, and made of smooth grey stone, while trimmed in some sort of wood that Dean can’t become more familiar with until he’s closer. The roof is flat, and every level is designed in a modified setback fashion. Dean counts three levels, each of them overlapping the other.

The back of the house boasts a large window so that Dean can see the trim backyard that Sam has apparently fashioned, as well. The lawn is a shrine to greenery, something Sammy’s always felt he’s never gotten enough of, and pushed far in the back is a pool that Dean doubts either of them will ever use.

Well, Sam might do some laps for exercise, but Dean’s never been a scheduled swimming kind of guy.

And he’ll be damned if his sons get close enough to that before they’re at least potty trained.

It’s like a tomb. It’s what he thinks of when he sees the exterior, sharp minimalist lines and angles, clinical but vaguely pleasing to the naked eye. Sam looks at the place with a designer's passion, but he shrugs in Dean’s direction, bounces Dec on his shoulders, ignoring what has to be a painful grip from Dec’s fist clutching at his hair.

“Inside’s yours, man. I got carried away on the outside, but I figured you wouldn’t care as much about that.” Pax tugs at the corner of Dean's ear, other fist in his mouth, sticky grip.

Dean doesn’t, not really, is only bothered by the heavy prick of degeneration in his skin, clawing like flesh-eating bugs, he’s soiled.

So, Dean designs the inside, if you can refer to it as that.

Inside is homey. Rough and tumble furniture that the boys can spill strange concoctions on, and nothing really matches, but it’s all damned comfortable, which is what Dean wants. Sam looks at him like he hung the moon and gave Sammy the stars to play with as extra, and leaves Mandarin collared shirts on the backs of thrift-store armchairs.

There’s a part of him, intricate and bone-laced, that loves Sammy and needs him to be happy and secure in all things, and that portion lies to him, sinner-sweet in his ear, that Sammy is doing the best he can, damn best he’s been given and Dean’s not allowed to question that.

He’s not permitted to spit in the face of God, when he’s been provided a miracle.

But the latter half, that half remembers his brother’s Alpha, remembers the swamp in his brother’s eyes as a child. Recalls the wounded way Sam held himself, like every moment was a strike against his existence. And when Dean thinks about his brother, that’s the boy he sees.

When Dean reconciles the affectionate way that Sam looks at his children, the way he tucks Pax close to his chin when he’s too tired to sit up any longer. Glances at Sam when his brother feeds Cheerios to Dec, one by one, drool and smiles, and thinks, maybe he’s wrong.

And then he remembers what they told him about Sam, the first time he made the drive he usually makes, which is to meet up with Bobby, in New Orleans.

Dean knows that Sam’s probably got his goons watching out for Dean’s every move, waiting for him to make a misstep just so they can slink back to His Majesty, paint webs of lies so that Sammy can look at him with that skin-smooth stare.

Ask him where he’s been, and if he’s been safe.

So, Dean drives. He trusts Sam implicitly with their kids, will never again make the mistake that Sam’s not trustworthy in regards to them.

If Dean was to lose everything, lose the essence of everything that ever made Sam his, Sammy’s moral code, his ability to see far beyond where Dean’s road ends, he knows Sam would never stop loving his kids.

It’s an hour and a half to New Orleans and he makes it in an hours time. He never gets pulled over anymore, never even so much as sees a cop on the road, and he’s got the uncomfortable feeling that it’s got a lot more to do with Sammy than his own incredible luck.

Bobby’s renting a place in The Quarter, and Dean knows the man feels awkward about it, at best. Turns out, the old man had Ellen’s daughter Jo, rent it out for him, and all he did was pack a few things from home and travel down here, well-used truck and one carpetbag between them.

He doesn’t do much but meet with Dean, understands the necessity for deception, the reason behind every seemingly innocuous decision Dean’s made. He's barely even answering any calls these days.

It’s the most stable and unharmed of the city since Katrina a few years back, due to its elevation and distance from the levees. That’s Dean’s main reason for insisting that Bobby get a place down there. The other is pretty simple, common hunter’s knowledge.

New Orleans is brimful of the supernatural.

Place swims in it. Monsters playing at human, and mostly leaving well-enough alone. It’s such a decent, efficient underground society that hunters tend to bypass it, more trouble than it’s worth to hunt things that aren’t doing the hunting themselves.

Every so often something crops up, but it’s _hard_ down here, damn near impossible. EMF struggles in the most basic of circumstances, and more often than not, shit gets lost in translation.

Dean steps out of the driver’s seat and kicks his boots (side only, please) against his front tire, dislodging the dust half heartedly. Bobby’s place is smack in the middle of the neighborhood, right where Dean likes it. There’s a brown door that meets the edge of the sidewalk and then there’s another set of stairs to climb before Dean gets to the top floor, where Bobby stays.

There’s a sweeping ironwork gallery surrounding Bobby’s building, and if Dean ever had the time, this is just the sort of place he’d like to start exploring.

As it is, he raps four times, two short, one long and one heavy, and he hears Bobby’s lumbering gait slide the deadbolt off and back away a bit so Dean can squeeze in.

S’nice in here, furniture's mostly art deco, 1920’s feel, geometric forms and heavy coloring. Bobby’s dresser is wide and low, curved talons on the base to serve as support. It’s chipped redwood, but it’s a beauty, and Dean whistles every time he sees it.

Bobby’s settled in his favorite chair, anthropomorphic arms posing as claws, jewel red cloth that’s probably seen dozens of asses before Bobby’s.

He'd picked at the old man a little bit about the decidedly feminine air of his new abode, but Bobby hadn’t been in the mood for any humor, and if Dean’s honest about it now, he probably still isn’t.

First thing he told Dean about was a man named Greg McCray, about fifty-eight, used to hunt on and off with John when they were kids. Helped him with a wraith when Sam was still in diapers. Bobby says it all tightly, and Dean watches the way his skin settles taut over his bones, neck dipping too low to support his head.

He missed Bobby growing up and to the end, he thinks, somehow blinked and a man he considers his surrogate father was on the slow decline. Can see it in the way Bobby’s shoulders slump when he tries to stand, habitual grab of his knee when he lurches upright from any seated position.

Dean wonders when he missed the memo that they’re all gonna die.

McCray hadn’t talked right for three months after they found him, and Bobby couldn’t rightly discuss the shape he was in.

“He ain’t have eyes, Dean. Like, big open sores, in his face. Open like death.” He says. “Rufus, remember Rufus, don’t ya boy? Rufus says they was all bled out, everywhere. Empty.” Dean has recoiled, stomach turning over itself.

It was his first visit, after he’d called and talked to Bobby about the temporary move, cause he needed to speak to someone, someone who knew the Before, knew what things were when they settled in an order that made sense.

Dean shivers in his own seat, glances at Bobby. “Do they know what did it? He talking now?” Bobby nods, lets his hands clutch tightly at the grizzled flesh of his thighs.

“At the beginning, only thing he’d say was your brother’s name.” Dean’s shaking his head faster than is sane, feels the strain as his joints pop.

“Not Sammy, Bobby. He wouldn’t hurt a hunter. He doesn’t have it in him.” Dean’s adamant on that front. He doesn’t know exactly who Sam is torturing out there, coming home, gold and glory, but he knows it’s not one of them.

Bobby lifts his shoulder. “I ain’t sayin’ he did, boy, but he’s mixed up in the whole damn thing.” Bobby heaves a sigh from his toes. “McCray, started talking the other day. He’s blind as the grave, Dean, and most of what he says don’t make a lick of sense, but some of it’s kinda clear.” Dean rocks in his seat, doesn’t want it, didn’t ask.

“Says there was a Greater Demon. And three heads, or something or other, and then Sam, watching.” Bobby massages his temples. “Says he was there and then gone.” He says. “Repeats that part a lot. And there was a broken Trap and a Key when they got there,  so I figure it was a summons gone wrong.”

Dean blinks rapidly, mouth agape. “That doesn’t explain what you think Sam was doing there!” Bobby grunts. “McCray isn’t gonna give us any good answers, boy, I just want you to know your brother’s name's out there.”

Dean remembers nodding, words suffocated in his throat, can’t defend without proof.

He and Bobby have come a long way from then, it’s been a year now, and Dean’s not the same, and he thinks who he once was and what he once thought belongs in here, with Bobby, because there’s no place for him out there.

“He’s the same, Bobby, but he’s fucking different, man. Way he handles himself. S’like there’s no one worth a look but us.”

Bobby sniffs.

Dean rushes ahead, words tripping over themselves.

“Not like that, he’s not out there killing innocents, but he can’t see anybody but us.” Bobby paces over to his liquor cabinet, slow gait.

“What are we supposed to do about it, Dean? That boys as powerful as anything, and you got kids to look after.” Dean levels his gaze at Bobby, he’s been doing a lot of thinking while Sam’s away.

“Only one he’s interested in is the archangel.” Bobby pours himself a shot of whiskey.

“One that kidnapped you and the pups?” Dean snorts drily. “Cause I know so many,” Dean laughs. Bobby rolls his eyes and holds out a small glass for Dean to take. He downs the shot in one go before continuing, rubbing the rim with his fingertip.

“Cronan, right?” Bobby wrinkles his head in thought, racking his mind to see if he’d gotten that correct. Dean’s on the verge of agreeing with him, pressed at the edge, when he pauses, remembers that not once, in a year, have they invoked his true name.

Ruby wouldn’t tell him, for fear, and he and Sam were under unspoken agreement to never say it.

Dean dangles the glass between his thumb and index and smiles, lopsided kiss.

“Goes by Samael, at the Christmas parties, I hear.”

He’s unprepared for the violent ringing that begins in his head, cacophony of sound, like the noise that only people of certain age ranges can hear, squeal of fingers sliding down a dry chalkboard, styrofoam rips and horror movie theme music.

Bobby’s dropped his glass, minute shards rolling across wood and moth-ridden rugs, and the light is so bright, Dean can see the sun, he’s in the sun, and there’s never even been another entity to exist before it.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Sam can't leave.

The crux of the matter is that he's disallowed to leave his kids and he's currently ringing in his head, violent tremors because he can feel it, feel the wrongness and the lack of.

Pax is sleeping. He’d be worried that the kid was in a coma if it were not for the fact that he checks on him regularly and can see the way his small chest rises and falls with each exhalation. His tousled golden hair is curled up on his pillow, and his current favorite design scheme consists of elephants. Fat happy elephants and it’s his new favorite word to say.

Dec is awake, but not actively so, and he reaches out grubby fingers for Daddy, curls one fist against his wet mouth. Sam lifts him absently, and it worries him that he can’t focus, that he can’t see Dec past the absence that is Dean, the gaping wound where his flesh fits.

He can’t leave them alone.

He doesn’t know what’s amiss but he knows it’s wide open and there, and how is he supposed to solve it here, away from the board and the court, vulnerable?

He jostles Dec on his hip and his boy gurgles in laughter. “Da,” he sputters, and Sam presses a kiss to sunset hair and heads into the kitchen, snags his cell phone from where it’s resting on the edge of their countertop, dull marble sheen and stainless steel.

Bobby is still on speed-dial, and he knows the man is in town, knows that’s who Dean goes to see every few days. Focalor had told him as much, chicken wire body bent double in obsequiousness.

“I’ve not spied on him, My Liege.”

Sam disallows that, wants Dean to have every semblance of privacy that he can provide, considering the fact that he can’t let Dean out of his sight, doesn’t want to recall what it feels like to know that Dean is slated for death and the Pit.

Notwithstanding that the Pit is now under his control, and anyone that would oppose it, Crowley, namely, is locked up and squared away.

Sam doesn’t call Bobby. Dean’s probably with Bobby, or was with Bobby, when Sam felt his axis shift, blood on the leaves when he searches out for his mate.

Dec squirms in his arms, can feel how restless Daddy is, and Sam knows he’s scenting, but he’s never been as proficient at hiding his emotions from them as Dean is, and instead of staunching the earth-warm smell of unease, he amplifies it, and Dec’s eyes are suddenly brimming with tears.

Sam reaches through the network, closing his eyes momentarily, and skips over the lightning bright red threads that he doesn’t need. He finds the one he’s looking for, tenuous and a bit frayed, and he spares a thought for how it came to be this way.

It shudders, soundless in the liquid black surrounding the ropes, and when Kade answers, it’s instantaneous, and the kid’s voice remains weak, reed-thin.

“Your Majesty.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming day and night for weeks, but Sam doesn’t have the time to analyze that, nor does he have the time to think about what a potentially wretched idea this is.

But, as much as he values his team, Kade is the only one he trusts enough to call. Kade shines, luster-bright with leftover humanity, and that’s the only quality that allows Sam to take him at his word. Sam recalls what that feels like.

Bitter cold snow and heat-soaked wind, the way sand feels, locked tight in closed-toed shoes.

“I need you here.” Sam would rather not release his information over the network. Kade arrives, crossroads quick, residual Hell-scent of ash and blood, rust colored in the openness of his living room, wide Bay window and glass.

“I need you to watch them.” Sam’s body is too tight and he grits the words out through teeth and limited air.

Kade’s brows raise up to his hairline, and he’s in a black t-shirt and jeans, not part of the inner court and therefore not dressed for the occasion. He’s got a streak of dirt riding high on his cheek, and Sam wonders if he was in the Bowels, wants to discuss what Kade gets up to when he’s not there to monitor.

He can’t.

“I’ll be back. You don’t need to do anything but watch them sleep.” He motions to Dec, who has fallen silent upon the demon’s arrival, head nestled against Sam’s neck inquisitively, damp fist against Sam’s collarbone.

“Maybe play with this one. He likes blocks.” Sam’s floundering, doesn’t know how to be without Dean, and he’s tilting dangerously, because he’s never been cut out for this like his brother. He’s only ever taken care of himself, and he even did that forcibly.

Kade’s eyes are wide, and he looks from Dec to Sam and back with large blinks.

“For-for how long?” Sam’s pleased that he hasn’t told him that he can’t, because Sam has no patience for that currently, no desire to hear the word no, or any variation of the sort. There isn’t an opportunity to say no, not when Sam has no other choice but to leave.

“Not long. I’m coming back. I just can’t--stay.” Sam knows this is the least eloquent he’s ever been, can see it in the slump of Kade’s thin shoulders, the way his neck stiffens as he hauls in a wide breath.

“Alright. I can do it. I haven’t held a baby in…” his voice peters out, and Sam watches his forehead scrunch the way demons’ usually do when they’re trying to figure out what is Hell time in comparison to that of the real world.

Kade’s face falls, and Sam knows he can’t do it. The time’s all blurred and running together, ink staining the walls.

“S’not a hundred years. That’s wrong.” Kade’s not looking at him, and the tendons in his neck are standing in stark relief, color bled from his face.

“Kade. Kade.” Sam knows his voice is low, empty, but he can’t wonder about that now, how long Kade’s been there, or, more importantly, what he did to deserve to be in the dark.

“I’m sorry.” He reaches out for Dec, and Sam braces himself for the shrill cry Dec will let out, he hates being parceled off, and is rarely as docile with strangers as his younger brother is. Dec blinks and lifts his head, and Sam holds his breath as his boy settles calmly in Kade’s outstretched arms.

Sam rocks back on his heels, the small of his back bumping against the corner of the counter.

Dec looks relatively calm, if not completely at ease, and Sam allows his eyes to unfocus, suddenly unsure as to whether or not the boy in front of him is truly as damned as he seems. His true face is formless, black smoke and flame, too young to have a more substantial shape.

Kade’s human visage snaps back into place and Sam blinks twice.

“Sit with Pax.” Sam demands. He’d rather his child not be alone when he wakes, even though he’s going to be sitting with a demon, and even if it’s a rather kind one, as demons go, Sam still can’t reconcile what he’s about to do.

When Kade is squatting in the boys room, yellows and greens of the Amazon mural Dean had wanted on their wall, giraffes littered across Dec’s half of the room, Pax snuffling gently in sleep, Sam vanishes.

It’s so quick he’s sure the boys never noticed that Daddy was there and then gone. Dean is always the one to ensure that they don’t see it, the preternatural way that Sam comes and goes. Sam appreciates it, but it chafes at him, raw and open, the way Dean hides him.

He’s never asked to be this way.

He doesn’t have any plans to relinquish what he is, either.

The board room is silent. It’s pitch black, as it isn’t in use, and Sam fixes that in a hurry, and lights flood the room so immediately that Sam shields his own eyes.

He tugs on various strings, the way he does when he’s here, cage of high-rise steel and wood. Dantalion is first, per usual, fissuring into being, half smirk on his handsome face. His smile hardens and dissipates, and he must see something in Sam’s face, because he settles into the broad-backed chair at Sam’s right and doesn’t say a word.

Predictably, Aym is next, thin and quiet, and he seems to already know, because he bows his head at the neck.

Focalor mutters something in subservience, and then he too is quiet. Bathin, Eligos and Vepar arrive on his heels, and settle into their respective seats.

Sam sits at the head, presses his fingertips together and wills himself to keep his composure. He’s on good terms with his men, it’s his innate humanity that allows him to refrain from some of his more ruthless endeavors, but he’s not exactly mild-mannered, either.

Eligos in particular, has sixty legions to his command alone, and were he not such a calm man, tall and broad shouldered, Sam would’ve had him executed on principle alone. Vepar’s swarthy face bothers him on the best of days, but he’s good at what he does, and he’s deferential to a fault.

“He’s here.”

Sam doesn’t have the time needed to mince words, but he’s probably inclined to provide more details than this, especially due to the fact that everyone but Aym and Dantalion looks mildly confused.

Danny cracks his neck fluidly and then leans forward, peripheral of Sam’s personal space.

“It’ll be nice to use the bastard’s name.” Aym hums in agreement, lacing pale fingers together under his chin.

Dantalion shifts to his Form and back again, quick shutter, and Sam can scent his anger underneath demon-flesh and oil.

Sam holds up his hand, two fingers, and Danny reluctantly falls silent, braces his weight on two fists over top of the polished table.

“Your brother’s come back. He’s got something very important to me.” Sam’s voice remains steady and inflectionless, allows Alpha to crawl at the corner of his mind, the way he has ever since Sam realized what had occurred, why he felt the rupture in the bond.

Alpha growls twice, silences himself, and Sam is distantly aware that his wolf is operating regardless of what Sam may or may not want at this time. He rolls his neck.

He didn’t wake up aiming to fight, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t ready now.

Aym leans forward, whip-sharp.

“He hasn’t bothered us in millenia. Not since Lilith.” Aym’s face curls in distaste, and Sam’s not vain enough to imagine that Aym does so in deference to him. There seems to be a split in those who minded Lilith well enough, and those who were attempting to orchestrate her downfall.

Sam’s aware that his position will never be secure, he’s King of Murderers and Condemned, and there will always be those who want him dead.

He’s impregnable currently, and Sam inclines his head in Aym’s direction.

“Apparently he wanted her on the throne.” Sam says this last drily, and Aym laughs, razors in his throat.

“He used to fuck her, bent over on that throne, so I’d assume he’s kind of partial to the thing.” Dantalion spits this last out, white-knuckled grip, and Sam understands that there’s no love lost for him.

Sam leans backwards, chair tipping gently on its revolving wheels. The pieces of the puzzle click together so rapidly that he’s ashamed of having missed them, ashamed of having been focusing too small to see the wider frame, something that he’s always prided himself on.

It’s never been about Sam, not specifically, at least. It’s always been what he’s been bred for.

“Fucking Christ.”

There is a collective flinch at the table, and Sam is only halfway aware that they cannot stomach the name of the Lord, that it burns on exposed skin, acid-rain and maggots.

He slams his fist onto the table, so violently that it splinters, ripple directly through the center of it, and everyone but Dantalion and Aym recoil at the sudden assault, unaccustomed with Sam’s unbridled rage. He’s only angry when it suits his needs, when it’ll serve his purpose more than calmly spoken words.

Danny shoves back from his chair, makes to step in front of Sam, but Sam pushes back himself, the spine of his chair hitting the wall directly behind him with the force of his movement.

“He’s coming for my goddamned throne.” Sam doesn’t yell but it’s a close call, and his incisors unleash faster than they’ve done since before he mated with Dean, since before he was sixteen and aflame in his own blood, more wolf than boy.

“He wants to be King.”

Dantalion doesn’t move from the half crouch he’s settled in beside his chair, and his eyes dart around nervously.

“He doesn’t have claim.” Eligos says this carefully, can apparently see that Sam is a wire-trip away from the shift, and Sam can feel the gold settle over his eyes, the warmer way he’s seeing the world around him.

Balthin seems to gather his second wind, and he’s a shorter man, heavyset with beady black eyes. “He hasn’t attempted anything in ages. Lilith’s dead, My Liege.”

Sam growls, and his spine cracks.

He’s got less control of Alpha than he’s realized.

“And now it’s mine. He’s got Dean, because it’s _mine.”_

The silence becomes so palpable that Sam can touch it, thick and heady in the distance. Dantalion springs forward, wraps one thick arm around Sam’s neck and lowers him bodily into his seat. Instinctively, Sam flings a hand out and Danny’s arm dislodges, and the man hurdles back in the air, slamming against the wall behind the long table.

He’s pinned, his hands curled into fists, and Sam watches him shift entirely to his Form, meatsuit obscured entirely by his mass.

Sam drops his arm and Dantalion falls to the floor, catches himself neatly on his palms.

“I want him. If he wants it so bad, he can _come and get it.”_

Aym’s standing now, and this seems to be the volatility they’re used to, the latent fury that they were waiting for.

“Your Majesty,” Aym says. “What would you have us do?” Sam makes a gargantuan effort, bends his shifting spine upright and his incisors scrape across his lips as he forcibly retracts them. He adjusts the lapel of his suit, pinstripe black, and pushes the crimson of his tie back up to the hollow of his neck.

“Samael. If you wanted to talk, you could’ve just asked.”

Sam doesn’t recognize his own voice, doesn’t recall how cool he sounds, and it’s like he’s watching a dream of his own body.

Alpha is pressing at his mind and Sam murmurs to him.

He’ll shift. He’ll shift when it’s time, and not a moment sooner.

There’s a rattling in the room, and the glasses on Sam’s table begin to shudder, glass clinking against glass. His men instinctively reach out for anything they can grab onto, and a high whine begins to sound in the air, choir-boy soprano.

Sam remains unmoved, and even Dantalion bows reluctantly under the weight of the sound, spine bending him back into the chair that he recently vacated.

The light is so bright that Sam finally averts his eyes, for fear of his own sight, and when he opens them, Samael is resting casually against the open frame of the board room, one hand casually tangled into his right pocket.

“Good to see you. I’ve been traveling quite a bit today.”

He saunters across the threshold until he’s directly in front of Sam.

He nods around the table, greets the demons by name, familiar caress of words. Aym has stepped surreptitiously in front of Dantalion, and Sam is grateful for that, because he would rather only shed one man’s blood today.

“Where is he.” Alpha is roaring, and it’s so loud in Sam’s mind that it burns, and he’ll never be built back correct after this day, after the way that Alpha is broiling in his lungs and his bones.

“Samuel. We’re closer than this. He’s perfectly fine. You know we’d never let anything happen to him.”

Sam lunges so quickly he shocks himself, wraps his fingers in the dark hair at the nape of the Angel’s neck. His men are more agile than he’s given them credit for, and Eligos wraps a veined arm around his wrist, and Dantalion pulls him back by the waist.

Samael smiles, and it’s barely more than a showing of teeth, flash of white in the night.

He adjusts his suit jacket, dull sheen of grey today, and crosses his legs at the ankles.

“After all, he called me.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

“Fuck.”

It’s, quite literally, the first thing Dean thinks when he opens his eyes, when the shriek of sound alleviates and he can breathe again.

It’s night-dark, and he knows he’s not at Bobby’s anymore.

“Bobby?” He whispers his name, voice brittle in his throat, and he attempts to clear the obstruction, tries again.

“Bobby?” He scents then, but he can’t smell anything but his own fear, sweat-damp and rank, and he stretches out carefully, just like John taught them, wants to be able to feel how far apart the walls are from his feet and palms.

He can’t touch anything when he stretches out, full as he can, and he crouches low and rises, covers the top of his head with his arms curled protectively around his scalp.

He stands without any problem, and then he can inhale. The imaginary crush of claustrophobia lifts, and he’s able to turn around in a half circle, wills his eyes to adjust to enforced blindness.

Well, shit. He’s run out of things to explore, at least without the potential of harming himself, and he’s sick and tired of being in the dark.

His mind flits to Bobby, remembers how he was completely obscured by the effervescent light, the way the glass had cut his hand as it shattered beneath his palms.

Well, shit, there’s probably a reason that people didn’t just use Samael’s real name in casual conversation. Dean drags damp palms against his gritty jeans as he thinks.

Intent. Sam always talked about that. You can summon someone, or, something, depending on intent.

_Don't just use it, Dean, you gotta be careful_

And Dean had never thought much of it. He’d known that Samael would come, especially were it him that called, only, he thought there would be more of a conversation, rather than a snatching. He’s damn ruined for being kidnapped.

He perks up momentarily as he recalls that he’s no longer pregnant, hasn’t even been close to that in a year, and his body belongs wholly to him again, and he’s prepared to use it to its full capability. Problem is, he can’t see.

He remembers that that’s the first thing he needs to rectify, if nothing else. He crouches down again, his back twitching in protest, and shuffles forward on his knees, one palm stretched out before him. He hits a wall about five paces forward, probably less if he were standing on two feet.

He runs his hand over the surface and comes away with a splinter.

Wood, then. He backs up, sits back on his haunches and blinks heavily in the oppressive darkness. Alright. He’s got a hole in one of his pants legs and he wiggles his index in it thoughtfully, can feel the warm blood curving itself into a scab.

He pats himself down, carefully, his head hurts a bit, dull ache, and he’s trying to remember what he’s currently got concealed on his person.

Automatic knife, Adamas folding, one of his favorite traveling weapons. Almost four inches long, blade included. It’s in his back pocket, and if he didn’t suspect before, he knows now that Samael doesn’t fear him, doesn’t think he’ll be of any real danger, or else he would have easily taken care of all his weaponry.

Dean breathes deeply, can smell the residual blood from the sharp, dirt-stained steel.

He releases it, likes the way it actuates the blade as it unlocks it. He holds it in one hand and reaches down into his boot for his second, Infidel. It’s pressure released and he removes his fingers from the line of the blade as it extends.

It’s sharpened off-center, beveled edge, and it’s light in his hand, little longer than the Adamas. He scrapes at the wall with the first knife, and he drags it down in a straight line until it meets the floor. He’s looking for the light.

He scrapes at the earth between the wall and floor, but there’s no door there.

He’s just looking for a sliver.

He moves a little to the left, tries it again, slow drag, clink of air-hardened steel against the ground.

Drags further away, three more times, wall meets floor each instance. His knees burn, bone scrape against the floor, and his shoulders are hunched in with old wounds and strain.

Nothing there, then.

Once more, and then he’ll have to start over. He can’t tell what part of the wall he might have missed. He drags the blade down the wood, hard creak of steel against earth and then the blade disconnects from the wall, meets air, and then hits the floor.

Yahtzee.

He folds the knife and hunches down so that his nose touches the ground, sneezes quickly as he inhales the dust collecting. There’s a way out here, and he can see a sliver of dull light from the bottom of the door and the space between the floor.

He closes his eyes, little difference in the self-imposed blackness and the real. His knives aren’t robust enough to hack apart the wood, and he’s not carrying anything big or sturdy enough that could. He stands, slowly, again, and unbuttons his flannel and strips his undershirt off.

The air on his skin is cooler, still saturated by warm heat, and he un-laces his boots, triple knots. He then unbuckles his belt, shoves work-worn jeans down his thighs along with his underwear until they pool at his feet.

“Hope there’s no night-vision cameras here.” Dean smiles to himself, low grade chuckle. “Scratch that. You’ll get a show.”

Dean rolls his neck and closes his eyes, attempting something he’s never done, something he’s never been allowed to connect to. His omega isn’t scared, but mildly perturbed, the way his second sex has remained, all his life.

Off-kilter with the remainder of his anatomy.

He feels a shiver trickle down his spine, slow release, and he takes a deep breath. His mind wanders, he thinks about Sammy, thinks about the way they look, crowded around one another in sleep, Pax sprawled out under Sam’s left arm, warm hand hooked on Sammy’s thumb. Dec pressed to the naked plane of Sam’s back, stomach first.

How he leaves them there in the mornings, his boys, and hopes they’ll be as perfect as he last left them, open faces and wide hearts.

The shift happens so seamlessly he doesn’t know it’s occurred until he opens his eyes and realizes that he can see now. What was once a fragment of light when he was human has expanded, and he can collect more brightness with his wolf-vision.

He can’t see fine details, he notes with some disdain, but he can work better with the ones he’s given. The light encompasses the door and he begins to dig, starts from the bottom where the bright is seeping, and he can feel claws tearing up wood and earth beneath his paws.

His nose shuffles forward, wet and heavy and he can smell the night underneath the opening.

It’s not long, with the ferocity of his digging, that he hollows out a hole small enough for his wolf-body to slither through, soft stomach connecting with warm soil and bugs, ears flat against his head. It’s well into the night. He can see that straight away, and the details grow fuzzy when he attempts to focus on any one thing at once.

He allows his vision to grow lax, and then he’s upright, on all four paws, shiver rolling through his fur. He wants to know what he looks like, but he can’t tell, and he doesn’t plan on staying in this form for long.

He’s uncomfortable in this skin, foreign and alien, but not altogether unfamiliar.

He’s not sure how to shift back, return to two feet, but he tries it anyway, because he needs to break down the remainder of the door.

His omega isn’t very big, not as large as the wolf that is Sam’s Alpha, copper colored and brawny, leashed violence. His omega growls, lowly in his hindbrain and Dean can feel his anxiety, the desire to return to normalcy, to his family. He’s not sure how to hone omega strength, and there’s no excess time with which to explore this incarnation of himself.

Dean’s spine cracks with the Change, he can feel his arms splinter and elongate, and then he’s upright. His limbs move with residual stiffness, and he can feel the leftover soil clinging to his face and toes.

He’s done wasting time, and he drives his body at the door with so much force, the wood fragments and he dislocates his shoulder.

He screams, loud as a siren in the moonlit night, but he pushes on through, scoops up and dresses himself as best he can, leaves the right sleeve of his flannel off because his shoulder blade is pulsating too greatly to move in coordination.

He’s going to have to relocate it alone. Sammy’s always done this part for him, braced Dean’s body with one palm, bracketed the rest of his body with his legs and shoved. Slammed him against the nearest solid surface. Tears leak from his eyes, but he’s not crying.

He drags himself closer to the wall, next to the gaping hole where the remains of the door are scattered, and shoves himself backwards, no false count the way Sammy always does.

He yells once more, vibrant and bitter, and he’s glad it’s so dark outside, because he can’t breathe, can’t see himself this way in the light of day. He pushes his arm back into the other sleeve quickly, in too much pain to bother with gentility.

The air is thick with no sound, and Dean can feel the absence of it like a distended weight. The earth is unforgiving against his feet, and his boots are unlaced, tucked haphazardly in the flaps of the shoe, and he’s not thinking straight, because he’s alone, and there was never any reason for things to be this way.

“Samael, you son of a bitch! You come back here and finish what the fuck you started!”

Dean sinks down to one knee, cold soil, and breathes in heavily. He opens his arms to the pain, knows it’s not so abrasive if you aren’t afraid of it.

The light is scattered around, and he hears the distant whine again, but it’s muted as he struggles to collect himself, drags his uncooperative body to both knees and uses his good arm to pull himself up by the wall. Sounds like broken glass against his flesh, and he knows enough to be frightened of it, but not enough to cover his ears, and the hiss of it allows him to remember that he’s alive.

It’s a cabin he was in, middle of the woods, and he knows he could figure his way out of this, basic survival. But now he’s spared himself the chance, because he’s called Samael back, demanded he return, and if nothing else, the angel is punctual to a fault.

The only difference is, when he glances up, when the light fades back into a memory, Samael is not alone.

Dean never understood until now, how someone could want a thing so much, never calculated just how much of his soul would become invested in the need, the requirement.

There’s no such thing as forgetting how to breathe.

Sam is standing next to him, looking none the worse for the wear. The moon is low-hanging, pregnant, behind them, Samael in his blunt grey suit, and Sam, hair hanging away from his face, everything black but his features.

His brother is looking at and beyond him, impenetrable, and his jaw visibly locks as he opens his mouth to speak.

Samael smiles, crosses over to Dean alone and helps him balance on both feet. “I thought it would take you longer, or else I would’ve come back sooner.” Dean ignores him, looks past Samael’s open smile and death-wide eyes to Sam’s caverned face.

His brother remains so rigid a stiff wind could blow him to the ground, and Dean’s in quite a bit of residual pain.

“Sammy. Jesus Christ, Sam, what’re you doing here?”

Sam blinks, one half step forward.

“I’ll let you kill me, Dean, if that’s what you think you’ve gotta do.” Dean’s heart lurches into his throat and his feet scrape against the dead grass beneath them. Samael releases him suddenly, and Dean’s glad, it’ll give him the chance to reach Sam.

He’s gotta know. Sam’s gonna think Dean called Samael, for this.

“That’s never what it was about, Sam. I can’t fucking lose you, man.” Dean dips his head against the violence in his shoulder, sucks in a stuttering breath.

“I’m trying to do it the right way.” He pauses, considers his next words.

“You ain’t got no-one to answer to but you, Sammy.” The words are laced in poison, dirty-bright.

Sam’s eyes are mirthless, wilted, and Sam’s never looked like that before, not at him, not in all his life.

“Everything I ever did, I answered to you, Dean.” Dean croaks, and all the things he could ever say whither and die, choked dust in the wind. Dean takes another abortive step forward, can’t straighten his spine but his legs are a different story.

Sam’s right hand twists into a fist and Dean’s body jerks in place, locked by his brother in mid-stride.

“S’better if you stay back, Dean.”

Samael laughs, crunch of tires on snow, just close enough to touch Dean’s shoulder, the uninjured one, and Dean watches as Sam’s neck tightens exponentially.

“He’d never hurt you, Samuel. It’s not in his nature.” Samael says, low hum of pleasure in his voice.

Sam doesn’t address the archangel, glances pointedly at Dean instead, little boy-wide stare, open and blank.

“It’s me or you Dean.” Sam's words cease, and then he adds, “There’s things we need to settle.”

“But you want me gone so bad, you remember how you want me fucking fixed--” Sam's voice rises in pitch, and Sam’s never this volatile, never this bright-supernova, “and you ask yourself if they’ll ever accept you.”

Sam lunges forward, still too far to touch, and Dean’s not permitted to move, even though his legs cry out with the wasted effort.

Sam’s face flushes scarlet, incisors elongated, and the dozens of trees surrounding him simultaneously bend at the waist, and Dean can hear the crack of their death in the silence of the night.

“IF THEY’LL EVER STOP HUNTING YOU, STOP TRYING TO KILL OUR SONS, BECAUSE OF WHAT I AM.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamelessly used the motto of the VFD, here.

The world is quiet here.

Sam doesn’t know where he is, but there’s an _otherness_ about it that he can’t quantify. The fight drains out of him, flush of diseased blood, and he’s left alone.

It’s green, far as his eyes can see, rolling hilltop crests, manicured blades of grass. There’s a cleanliness that pokes at him, it’s rubbing him raw, and when he looks down, he can see the raised pores on his skin.

He rolls his sleeves up higher, black at war with the red haze of his flesh. He glances up, registers how high this sun is in the sky, and he blinks once.

When he focuses, he can see the orb in its entirety. It’s ever evolving, and when Sam pulls his body to a standstill, he can see the individual flames leap up from the surface to lick at the sky.

There’s nothing here.

He’s not altogether unsurprised when he sees Samael, out from the corner of his eye, hands pushed low into his pockets, head bowed down against the light, shine so inclusive Sam can’t see through it.

“It’s just us, here.”

The Angel’s voice is different, more subdued, and Samael doesn’t tend to exhibit much emotion in his tone to begin with. He looks up, storm-grey eyes, and blinks languidly at Sam. “Don’t touch your skin.” He inclines his head apologetically.

“It’s the best I could do for you, here.”

Sam looks down at his wrist, sees the way the red makes a flame, climbs him higher like a vine. It burns, residual sting, but Sam knows instinctively that if he touches it, it’ll become a thousand times worse. He tugs his sleeve down carefully, keeps the pads of his fingers from brushing sensitized flesh.

“Where is here, exactly?” Sam’s once again surprised at his depth of inscrutability, considering that he was ready to shift and maim just a few seconds ago. He holds himself tightly, angles his body so that it meets Samael’s, head on.

“There’s no violence here. You’ll find it impossible to get angry.”

The words come out melancholy, and Sam gets the sense that while the archangel isn’t permitted rage, he is allowed a certain bit of disappointment over the situation.

“Good to know there’s a reason we aren’t at eachother’s throats.” Sam says pleasantly, not a hint of sarcasm coloring his tone. Jesus, it’s like being in church.

His words catch in his throat, and he schools his features into anything that doesn’t resemble surprise. Samael’s face remains unreadable, but he’s close enough to Sam that he can see how the grass bends beneath his feet, the way the unnatural light of the sky envelopes him.

“This isn’t Heaven.”

Samael nods sagely.

“I couldn’t take you there, even if I wanted to.” Sam raises his brow, politely. He knows why, but he’d like to hear it explained. He wants the certainty, as close to God’s own mouth as he can get, as to why he’s the way he is.

“It’s the Between.” Samael smiles to himself, and it’s unnerving, the way that the archangel looks at him, for what is probably the first and last time, honesty and clarity tangled in his handsome features.

Sam hears the name in Enochian, and it throws him momentarily, the seamless way it filters into his consciousness. It's not so much that he hears it, and then translates it to English, as it is an innate _understanding._

Sam's studied the language, but his comprehension comes from a deeper space, a place of _knowing._

Sam pushes his own hands into his pockets, notices that the air becomes neither cooler or hotter with the passage of time. “Like Purgatory?” Samael laughs, and it sounds like a melody, crystal clear in the unbothered air.

“This is sanctified ground. Purgatory is of a different sort altogether. It’s not meant for either of us.” Sam nods, can tell that he’s being told as much of the truth as is permissible for him to know.

“Why’d you bring us here? Why am I--” he falters, unsure of the phrasing. “Why am I burning?” Samael hums, pulls his hands together sympathetically. “I really am sorry about that. It’s not as bad as it could be, although my guess is that it’ll get much worse the longer you’re here.”

Sam sucks in his air, feels the uncomfortable slip-slide of fabric against chafed and reddened skin. “That’s not an answer, Samael.” The man smiles, dagger-deep, and spreads his hands wide.

“You’re of the Dark, Sam. There’s nothing of you here. Your body’s resisting this place.” He begins to walk, slow semi-circle around Sam’s stiff body, head bowed once again. “You forfeited your right to be here when you took the Throne.”

Sam waits for the stirrings of anger, but they maintain their absence. Alpha remains cautionary, but appeased, looks back and forth from enemy to Sam in some confusion. Sam’s never thought of anger without first feeling it, and the detachment is something he can’t reconcile.

“You wanted the Throne too. That’s not all this is.” Sam’s voice is quiet, which seems to be the closest to fury he’s conceded in this place.

The Between.

“Did you know that I’m called the Wrath of God, Sam?” Sam nods, tersely, and his body is fraught with pain, inchworms of fire trickling up the length of his body, starting at his feet and branching outwards. It feels like sharp knives, a dig and then a twist.

“My command is endless. You’re not dead because it’s not yet in my jurisdiction to take your life. You haven’t attempted to free my brother.”

Samael nods, and then grins.

“For that, I am grateful. My brother wants nothing more than Civil War.” Sam nods stiffly. Can imagine why. His entire family turned their back on him, relegated him to the grave for millennia. Sam would be itching for a fight too.

Want to shed a little brotherly blood.

Samael’s face darkens, pensively, and he sucks his teeth. “I want my brother’s seat so he can’t have it. He’s not to be trusted with it, and to be honest, Sam, neither are you.” He flips his palms upwards, smiles congenially.

“Nothing against you. But you’re in my way. None of my other brothers will be able to take it.” He sneers, and it’s the first shadow of something less than cordial on his face. “They’re not like me.”

Sam’s itching, inside out, and he’s sure that if he remains here, in this place of clean air and bright, he’ll burst into hellfire, and he thinks that The Between might be closer to Heaven than it is to Hell.

“You brought me here to die. You can’t kill me, but this place can. I’m not meant to be here.” Samael smiles, and it’s wan, but there, nevertheless.

Sam takes a step forward, and the flames burst forth within. He keeps his mouth shut by sheer force of will, can’t concentrate enough to teleport back to safety, not with the way the conflagration is singing in his bones, wicked peak of arson.

“You won’t become King. Not even if I die here today.” Sam grits the words out, and his body rocks forward and he lands on one knee, soft grass connecting with his slacks and sending another frisson of pain lancing through his body.

“I’ve been in both Heaven and Hell for eons, Samuel. There’s nothing that’s not allowed to me.”

Sam’s right fist hits the ground next, and he braces his weight on the extremity, holds himself steady enough that he can lift his head, even though there’s agony laced up the back of his neck, and he knows the whole of his body is searing to the touch.

“Brother.”

Sam can hear but he can’t see, the damn light burns at his retinas, and when he closes his eyes, it’s as if it never happened, because the luminescence still encompasses everything around him.

“This is not your _right,_ Samael. You’re not to bring him here.” The new voice vibrates with presence, the quiet hum of inherent power, and Sam’s body bends forward further. His lower lip collects blood as he bites down on it, gnaws at the flesh in a desperate bid for silence.

“You’re not to interfere, Uriel. This is none of your concern.” Sam can hear the jeer in Samael’s voice, the condescension lacing his words.

“I didn’t bring you into this. The damned do not belong to you!” Samael’s voice chokes a bit, as his voice rises, and it’s unnatural, the way the anger eeks out, and that burns in tandem with the razor-thin edge of pain on his person.

There’s silence, and then Uriel answers, and Sam realizes that it’s not rage in the other’s voice, it’s righteous anger, and it sounds more quantifiable than anything he’s heard in Samael’s voice yet before.

“You’re not to die here today, little King.”

And before Sam can feel anything close to indignation, the singe of his skin has vanished, and so has the meadow of the world around him, kissing-close in its vitality, the vibrancy of the sun and earth dancing across shut eyelids.

When he’s finally able to open his eyes, he’s directly in front of his house, undisturbed, suit as pristine and unblemished as it was when he thought it into being.

He can hear Dec’s cries from within, knows the boy can scent him, and hears Pax squealing, “Da-da,” repeatedly, even louder than Dec’s screams of delight.

Sam’s barely crossed the first concrete step when he sees his brother, the fling of the opening door against the honey-warm wood paneling of their entryway.

Both boys are balanced in his arms, and Sam can see that his brother is in some amount of discomfort, and it pains him that he doesn’t know why. Didn’t find Dean fast enough to realize that he was injured, and when he did, Samael whisked him away to a place where his brother did not exist.

Dean’s eyes are wide, Sam-starved, and Dec coos uncomfortably, because Dean’s scenting terror, and it’s overripe melons in the hot sun. Sam plucks his boys from Dean’s body, whip sharp, and nudges his brother from the doorway with his hip, kicking the door closed behind him.

Dean begins to walk then, purpose in his stride, right arm held stiffly by his side.

“How long, Dean?”

Sam’s voice feels misused, even though he didn’t speak very much, was not allowed the release of fury.

“Week. You’ve been gone a week, Sam, and I didn’t know if you were fucking dead or alive.” Dean doesn’t turn to face him and Sam winces absently as one of Pax’s hands winds into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugs.

“I blinked, that damn light, and you were gone, and I was here.”

Dean turns around then, so sharp that Dec honestly whimpers and curves his face into Sam’s neck. “Da,” he hiccups, and Dean’s face softens as he gingerly brushes Dec’s locks off of his forehead.

“You left my kids with a demon. You didn’t know where the fuck I was, or how fucking long I would be gone, and you left them alone with a goddamned monster.” Dean’s smiling, for benefit of the twins, leans down to blow a raspberry into Pax’s cheek.

“I coulda killed you myself, Sam. Coulda ripped your damn spine out.”

Sam’s so taken aback he stumbles forward, locking his arms around his sons protectively.

“Up to bed, boys.” Dean’s following, his footsteps cat-like, and if Sam didn’t have a spatial awareness reserved only for Dean, he’d be pissing his pants in fright right now. Dec starts gulping in his air, which Sam drily notes means that he’s about to work himself up to a tantrum.

He plops Dec down first, firmly on his diapered butt, soft blue t-shirt bunching up around his belly button. “We’re not screaming tonight, little man. I don’t wanna hear it.” Dec opens and closes his fists petulantly, allows his eyes to fill with tears.

“M’not coming to play, Dec, and your Papa isn’t either.”

Sam turns around, grins at Dean even though his brother is an awkward cross between amused, livid, and in pain.

“World doesn’t belong to you, Dec.” Sam kisses the boy, three times, purposefully puts enough force behind the last kiss to knock the boy down onto his back. Dec giggles, slams his fists down against the soft cotton of his bed and kicks his legs.

After a thought, Sam deposits Pax down next to him, and figures that Dec will sleep a little better if he’s got someone beside him. Pax has something in his fist, it’s long and metallic and he’s drooling all over it.

He nudges at Dec’s plump legs spastically, and Sam gently pries his fingers open for the object. He uncurls it, and glances up once at his brother, holds the soggy mess gingerly in his palm.

Dean crosses his arms and steps closer to Dec’s crib, reaches up to turn his mobile on. “He wouldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. I gave him that tie cause it smelled the most like you.” Dean smiles, and it doesn’t reach the heavy circles underneath his eyes.

“Wouldn’t give it up, not til right now, apparently.”

Sam tucks the tie in his inner pocket, unbuttons his suit jacket and drapes it over the corner of the crib, beige wood and onyx, and hopes it’ll help lull his children to sleep.

Sam’s first down the hall to their bedroom this time, and when Dean closes the door, Sam wills himself to maintain his composure.

“You left them alone. With it.” Dean says the sentence, so quietly it’s disarming, but laced in venom.

Sam grabs Dean’s wrist, and his brother winces, but Sam’s too far gone to let go, because Alpha’s been denied his brother, been denied the peace of mind that comes with knowing Dean and his family are safe and well-cared for.

He’s been taken away as their protector, and that’s the height of what he’s striven to be.

“I didn’t know where you were! All I knew is that I felt you, then you were gone.” Sam turns his body to face Dean’s, grabs the other wrist with his free hand.

“I knew he had you, so what the hell did you want me to do?”

Dean struggles to pry his arms free, glares up at Sam’s face, heated, eyes blank with fear and pain. “You’re supposed to let me go, you fucking idiot! It’s them. It’s them, you always choose them!”

Sam tightens, just that fraction harder, and then Dean comes willingly, presses his warm body against Sam’s chest as he breathes in frustration and pain. “You gotta choose them, Sammy. You can’t just leave them alone like that.”

Dean glances up, brow furrowed. “Not with something like that, Sam. You gotta be the one to look after your kids.”

Sam’s heart is pounding in his chest, so erratic he hopes it’ll simply stop, and spare them this conversation, this event.

He can hear those words, in another life, echoing from a boy with grown hands on a child’s body, sweep of damp hair and untouched skin.

_We’re his, Dean. The both of us. That how you treat your kids?_

He pushes himself back, away from his brother and slams against their wall, knocking a picture frame loose. He hears it clip the nightstand on its journey to the floor, and Dean cradles his right wrist in his left.

“I forgot. He shouldn’t have sent me back here.” Sam pushes himself up, away from the support of the wall and gives Dean as large a berth as he can muster, in the space allotted.

“Sammy. Sammy. Sam.” Dean reaches out, as Sam turns toward their door, reaches his hand out for the silver knob. “Jesus, Sam, will you, fuck, will you just stay?”

His brother’s voice is foreign, thick like syrup, and Sam’s shoulders bow forward, because he’s so very tired, so very locked in on himself. “I’m not what you wanted, Dean. Whatever we are, it’s not what you wanted.”

His hand connects and he pulls the door open, steps over the threshold.

“I ain’t letting you leave, Sam. We can fight it out tomorrow, but I ain’t letting you out of this damn house. Not like this.” Sam chuckles darkly, refrains from facing his brother, because he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for all of that.

“I can be gone in a second, Dean, if I want. You can’t keep me here.” Sam feels Dean’s hand around his forearm a second too late, and then he’s done a full 180, and he wishes to God he’d kept walking, disappeared to someplace that wasn’t here, in this house.

Dean’s naked, and Sam wonders when he missed that, missed Dean’s clothes falling off of his lean body, puddling around his feet like discarded flags of war.

His body is firm, firmer than even before he had kids, and Sam hadn’t questioned it, had sat back in amusement as Dean gained back all of the muscle mass he’d lost, fought tooth and nail for it. He can see the definition of his abs beneath soft blonde curls, and his dick is half hard, hanging gently against his thigh, flushed and pink.

Sam steps forward, tethered to this view of Dean, built to respond when his brother is this open and warm for him.

“Jesus, Dean. Not like this.” Dean surges upward, tangles his rough palms in Sam’s hair and jerks him down for a kiss. The kiss is brutal, lips and tongues fighting for dominance, and Dean breaks away just enough to breathe in Sam’s mouth.

“Yes, like this.”

Sam’s hands snake forward, crush Dean’s nakedness to his own, clothed body, and runs the tips of his fingers over the firmness of Dean’s thighs before settling on the peach of his ass, tugging him up in one fluid motion.

Dean mewls in his mouth and tugs at his lower lip, wraps his legs around Sam’s waist and loops strong arms around the back of Sam’s neck.

Sam supports the weight of his body with his left forearm, heat of Dean’s ass leaking through shirtsleeves, and runs his right index over the length of Dean’s crack, growling lowly when he feels the slick that’s collecting there, running copiously down his brother’s thighs.

“How do you want it, baby?” Sam murmurs, pushing two fingers inside the hot heat, scissoring them so gently he can scent Dean’s impatience in the air.

“Gonna ride you,” he breathes, pulls back, his mouth wine-dark, eyes luminous in his flushed face.

“Fuck myself on that fat dick and remind you--” he screws his hips down and Sam hears the dirty suck as his fingers are inadvertently shoved up to the second knuckle, “why you’re not allowed to leave.”

Sam jerks his fingers out so quickly Dean moans with displeasure, but he pushes the digits in between Dean’s swollen lips wordlessly, and his knees lock together when his brother starts to suck, so messily the spit pools and tumbles out from around where his lips meet Sam’s hand.

Sam pulls his fingers free with a damp pop and sits on the very edge of their bed, one arm still tucked securely under Dean’s sopping-wet ass. His brother wiggles impatiently, leans forward to lick at the side of Sam’s neck.

“Jesus, Dean. Jesus.”

Sam undoes the top and then the inner button on his slacks, struggles to unzip them and then ends up ripping them off of his legs entirely, kicks them free.

He moves both hands so they’re cupping Dean’s hips, can feel the play of abdominal muscles as Dean shifts his body to completely straddle Sam’s lap. Sam spins quickly, maintaining Dean’s perch on top of him, and then he’s flat on their bed, eyes hooded as he looks up at the picture Dean makes.

Dean’s not looking at him, he’s biting at his lower lip, one hand braced on the overheated fabric on Sam’s chest. He’s half twisted to look behind him, and he’s supporting all of his weight on his knees, which are bracketed around Sam’s waist.

“Gonna look at it all day?”

Sam can’t resist, can feel his dick jump in preemptive excitement when Dean’s hand closes around the tip.

“I can, if you want.” Dean answers breathlessly, glances at him with a ghost of a smirk. “Shoulda told me that was all you wanted, ‘fore I got this wet for you.”

Sam’s body jerks in place and he moans, heavy in his throat. “Sit the fuck down on my dick, Dean. Don’t play.” Dean laughs, but it’s more like the bastard of a sob, and he lines himself up, thighs trembling gently as he presses himself down, suction of Dean’s ass dragging Sam’s dick in further.

Sam’s fingers tighten compulsively on Dean’s hips and he tosses his head back against the pillow.

“Jus’ like that,” he slurs, babbling. “Fuck, Dean. M’never gonna let you up. Fuck.” Sam feels the heat of Dean’s ass against his pelvis, knows he’s fully sheathed, and his brother drops forward, bracing the remainder of his weight on Sam’s pectorals.

He pushes his upper body down far enough to capture Sam’s lips in a kiss, and rises gingerly, and then slams his hips back down. Dean mewls, startling himself, and that’s the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen.

Sam watches, listens to the little grunts his brother makes as he fucks his body up and down, the dusk of his nipples and the way the sweat pools on his collarbone.

Sam’s barely breathing, and he hitches his own hips up, begins to meet his brother halfway. “You gonna let me keep you, Dean?” He stutters out, cursing under his breath as Dean begins to grind down between thrusts.

“Gonna keep your fucking knot in me, Sam?” Dean’s rhythm stutters and Sam digs his nails in the bright flesh, so turned on he’s growing light-headed. “F’you don’t, m’gonna need something--” Dean leans back, throws his arms behind him so he’s holding himself steady against Sam’s ankles.

“I gotta stay full--”

and that’s enough of that.

Sam jerks him upright, and his cock’s so hard it’s narrowed to that point, and he watches the obscene way Dean’s dick sways with the force of his thrusts, slippery-shine of pre-come.

“Gonna be full of me. That’s it. S’all you’re ever gonna get.” Sam keeps one hand on his hip and snakes the other around to where they are joined, runs two fingers over Dean’s stretched out rim, puffy and sore.

“Say it. Say it over and over, til I let you come.”

Dean’s gasp is one big wet sound, and he hiccups gently before he opens his mouth.

“Full ‘a you,” he says, repeats it til the words run together, sound like one continuous prayer. Sam’s not breathing too well, but he thinks he’ll have Dean recite his rosary until Sam begins to feel absolved.

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Sam doesn’t come to their bed anymore.

That’s not to say that he doesn’t come home, he does, he’s ever punctual, but he sticks to playing with the boys, gets them ready to go to sleep, all by himself.

Tucks Dec’s squirming limbs into too big sleeves and buttons up the backs of Paxton’s onesies. Dean aches for that, wants Sam’s hands twisting his body into unmanageable shapes, pressing him down in their bed by the back of his neck.

Misses the way Sam hikes his hips up and demands he stay there, dirty thrill of his exposed body for his brother’s consumption.

He plays dirty, sometimes, and his brother is close to cracking, watches him with too-dark eyes in his peripheral.

He checks on Dean, every night before he goes to sleep in one of their spare rooms, shoulders broad and stiff, resigned to his inherent need to protect and preserve. He doesn’t look into Dean’s eyes, asks him if he’s alright, and does he need anything?

And Dean smirks, knows Sammy won’t be able to sleep until he hears Dean drift off, and some nights Dean feigns sleep just so Sammy can get a little rest. Knows his brother doesn’t trust him anymore. Not in the way of believing that Dean will take care of him, have his back, but in a more fundamental manner.

It’s painful to watch, the way his boy pulls away from him, muted thunder, and Dean’s reaching, but Sam won’t come a little closer, won’t connect the way he’s meant to.

This isn’t supposed to be how it ends.

Dean recalls the irony of the fact that he was supposed to be Hell’s child. He was supposed to be locked downstairs with Lucifer for comfort, in a gasoline blanket.

Dean’s seen Bobby more often, since Sam has distanced himself, and he can’t seem to stop touching him, phones him more often than not, just to ensure that the man is alive and kicking. Bobby didn’t suffer anything more than a few cuts and scrapes from shattered glass when Samael whisked him away.

There aren’t many people who are still in the business of helping Winchesters, but there remain some with a soft spot for Dean, those who remember Mary and how much she loved her boys.

Bobby’d tried to get a crew together to search for him, but was floored when Dean managed to call and relate the news of his escape and subsequent return to his home. He’s been talking with Bobby about the entire affair, the way that Samael has never harmed him.

Not once has the archangel placed in him in a situation that was not relatively safe. Dean glances over at the way Dec is pressing on the top of Pax’s head, using him as unwilling leverage in order to stand. Pax grunts under the strain but allows it.

Dec giggles happily once he’s on his own two feet, and begins a mildly unsteady progress towards the fort Dean’s built for them in the corner of the living room. It’s constructed of a blanket depicting soft green grass and giraffes are hiding in the tufts.

Pax likes to point them all out, sticky sweet fingers in Dean’s hand, as if Dean hasn’t counted them all, (forty-three) and they’re embarking on this journey together.

Needless to say, when Dean hears a commotion outside of the house, near the front door, he spares his kids a glance before he tugs Infidel out of his back pocket, runs the flat of the blade against his jeans in order to clear away imaginary debris.

He side-steps into the entranceway, walking very carefully so that his shoes don’t unnecessarily creak against the wooden floor. Whomever is outside isn’t bothering with stealth, and he can hear low curses and what sounds suspiciously like someone stumbling and falling to the ground.

Dean pockets his knife and cracks his knuckles. He figures that anyone this incompetent doesn’t deserve the skill of his blade, and his fists will simply have to do. He tugs open his front door smoothly, leans against the black finish of the doorframe when he sees who it is.

His mouth quirks despite himself when he sees that it’s the demon who Sam had placed in charge of his kids. The boy looks worse for the wear, distinct hell-scent, charred ash and bones clinging to him like a second skin.

He rubs at his eye and then looks up, entire body jerking as he takes in the casual sprawl of Dean’s body, pseudo-harmless cross of his arms against his chest.

“Fuck. He’s gonna kill me.” The words are said lowly, but unhidden, and Dean smiles fully, amused.

“Sent you here as my guard dog?” Dean appraises him coolly, takes in the slight frame of his host, the way his grey shirt clings to his body, too loose blue jeans hanging on bony hips. Blonde hair streaked with debris, dingy red-tinge.

Dean wonders what he went through to be here.

“M’not your regular. He’s having a bitch fit because he hates babysitting duty--” the kid pales, luminous eyes up in Dean’s face. Dean opens his hands, palms upward.

“I’m not that bad. I even sleep the whole night through.” Dean curves his lips a bit, just to show the kid he’s only teasing. He’s distrustful, he can smell the demon traversing slowly through skin and bone, and it makes his omega recoil.

He figures the kid isn’t nearly as strong as he will be in a few Hell years, and, for some reason the bright flare of his humanity hasn’t been singed out of his flesh yet, burnt to a crisp by hellfire and hatred. Whatever he is, and regardless of what he is to become, Dean’s fairly certain he can take him, if need be.

And the kid is clearly too frightened of Sammy to attempt anything out of pocket.

It still floors Dean to realize there is an entire retinue of people that live in horror of his brother. Soft-eyed Sam, with his capable hands and bruised heart.

There are people who avoid his disappointment in the effort of retaining their lives. Dean’s seen that Sammy, seen the way he loses any bit of empathy he ever had. Watched Sam bathe in blood and smile, white darkness in a red sea.

Sam trusts this one. He has a whole slew of hellspawn he can command at his will and this is the one he choose to watch their kids. Dean doesn’t trust easily, can count the number of people he’s truly believed in on one hand. But Sam must’ve had a reason. Sam’s also an idiot.

“What’s your name?” Dean is honestly curious, and he ducks his head back inside and cranes his neck around the corner to catch Dec shoving ineffectively at Pax’s head.

“Hey!” He barks, and Dec tumbles to the ground, ass first, and Pax squeals in vindicated delight. Dean shakes his head and looks at the kid again, his brown eyes narrowed at Dean in disbelief. “I’m Kade. My name, that is.”

Dean snorts. “M’not gonna bite you. Unless you try something.” Dean whistles through his nose. “I ain’t got no problems spilling a little blood.” Kade nods, twists reedy fingers in between one another. “You’re not supposed to know I’m here.” Kade nods, to himself.

“Dantalion’s gonna kill me, again.” Dean levers himself up from the wall, the name striking a cord. Sam’s mentioned him before, not very often, because apparently he thinks Dean is too sensitive to hear about his day job.

The entire affair may piss Dean off beyond recognition, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be left out of the loop. Dean likes to know everything, and then some.

“What about him?” Dean asks casually, and the boy blanches. “I don’t know, I don’t know if His Majesty would want that. You knowin.’”

Dean guffaws.

His Majesty?

Fuck, but Sammy’s got ‘em all by the balls.

“Gonna find out one way or the other. This way you might only get away with him yelling at you.” Dean shrugs, one shoulder, and the boy wilts, hot grass in the clutch of summer sun.

“He’s his Great Duke. Right hand.” Kade mutters it and kicks at the concrete. “Look, it’s supposed to be his day, cause His Majesty wants you to have extra protection. Dantalion hates it, so he sends me, sometimes. He’ll be here later, though.”

Kade grins then, and it’s blinding sharp and pretty, and Dean’s a little floored. “He’s more of an asshole than me. Harder to crack.” Dean grins. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure you tell me everything I’m looking for, then.”

Dean himself doesn’t even know what he’s after, but Sam hasn’t done so well talking to him, and Dean thinks that he’s just gonna have to take matters into his own hands.

Before he can ask anything, put a voice to his fears, Dean feels the tug of power around him, like a tightening of air, and that’s how he knows something is coming. Kade looks at him once, plaintively, and Dean watches as his sallow face grows impassive.

Dean doesn’t know what he expected, but the man in front of him is not it. He’s got hair the color of sun-kissed wheat and his eyes look grey-blue, but edging more toward grey with the expansion of his pupils.

He’s in black from head to toe, looks like he and Sammy buy from the same consignment shop. His tie is thin and it’s a dark grey, barely a contrast from the rest of his attire. Even his dress shirt is black silk, and Dean wonders if that’s even comfortable.

The man smirks in his direction, casting an inscrutable gaze at Kade. The boy isn’t cowering, though Dean can sense he would like to. He meets the gaze head on, head inclined respectfully. Dean pulls his stare back toward the other man, and when he grins his mouth is surprisingly bright.

“Well then. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” He drawls the words out, and Dean is surprised to find that he’s entertained.

This one’s an ass.

It takes one to know one, Dean surmises.

“I’d introduce myself, but you don’t look like an idiot, so I shouldn’t need to.” Dean says. Kade inhales, whistle sharp, and Dantalion’s eyes narrow with suppressed mirth.

“You don’t have a good sense of self-preservation, do you?” Dantalion says. Dean steps closer to the pair and shuts the door behind him with a snick. Their home is warded, and Dean has heightened sensitivity to his children.

Right now, he has a point to make.

“My sense of self-preservation is doing just fine, thanks for askin’. I’ll send your ass straight back to Hell,  though, and since you’re already all dressed up, it’ll be just like an express gift.” Dean says.

Dean’s smile is friendly, the wide grin he gives monsters, suspects in murder cases, women he’d like to bend over and plow from behind.

Dantalion’s face is frozen in a facsimile of a smile, and Dean’s always had a problem with baiting the bear.

“Don’t take too kindly to being threatened.” The Duke says, complacently.

Dean steps closer, hunter-quick, so sharp that Kade dodges the movement of his body and Dantalion’s own stiffens in response. “You think a man who sold his soul really gives a fuck about self-preservation? You think I don’t know what it means to _die?”_

Dantalion’s mask of gentility slides off of his countenance and he’s baring his teeth. Dean can scent the Alpha underneath the muck, and is momentarily thrown. This host was strong, can smell the rot and flies. Dean feels the old urge to defer, but he’s been taming that particular instinct all his life.

The only Alpha he allows himself to bow to is Sam, and it’ll remain that way.

Dantalion returns to an upright position when Dean’s only response to his posturing is a raised eyebrow, and then he’s grinning again, mouth so wide that it throws Dean off balance. “You aren’t like him.”

Dean doesn’t answer him, figures the demon will elaborate.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re pretty similar.” Dantalion loosens his tie and spares Kade a glance. The kid is leaning against the cream-grey stone of the house, and he’s looking anywhere but at the two of them.

Dantalion crosses his own arms. Dean’s becoming restless. The boys are fine, but he doesn’t want to leave them alone a moment longer than he needs to.

The Greater Demon opens his mouth to speak, but snaps it closed, and his eyes flicker blood-red, so suddenly Dean almost forgot he wasn’t quite human. He turns to fully face Kade, voice lowered in malice.

“You. Stay here. You watch out for him and I won’t think about separating you from your host.” Kade looks frightened for the very first time, truly cornered and terrified.

“Don’t touch him. This one’s mine. I’ll stay. I wouldn’t leave anyway.” Kade hisses.

Dantalion readjusts his tie, fashionable hanging.

His eyes haven’t flickered back to rainstorm, but Dean’s not unnerved, he’s seen worse. The man pauses, malcontent still shadowed on his face as he gives Dean his direct attention.

“You’re violence, but he’s no mercy, and that’s not the same.” Dantalion says vaguely, brow smooth of all thought.

Dean feels the rubber band snap of power as the demon vanishes before his eyes, and then Kade is surging up from the wall.

“You gotta get in the house, Mr. Winchester.” Dean was going anyway, can feel his boys getting restless. They’re probably scenting the sickly sweet smell of concern that Dean’s radiating. The demon’s words and sudden departure aren’t doing him any favors, either.

He’s worse than useless here, because he can’t leave the twins, and Sam’s not even close to communicating with him.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Dean hisses the words, saccharine sweet and turns to the kitchen to get two bottles of whole milk. He’s weaned them off of formula about four months ago, but they continue drinking milk like it’s going out of style.

Kade wrings his hands.

“Nothing yet. But there will be.” Kade says. Dean grabs the boy by the arm, releases him quickly when his eyes flick immediately to black, defense mechanism. “Fucking tell me. I swear to God, I’ll kill everyone.” Dean knows he’s being irrational, but he doesn’t have a lot of resources at his disposal.

“He’s making war. Don’t you get it? Angel took you, kidnapped you. You think the King’s gonna stand for that?” The boy’s heated, more bass in his voice than Dean expected of him and he almost drops the bottles in his surprise. He holds the two in one hand and braces himself against the granite of the countertop.

Dean sighs, and it’s long-suffering.

“Sammy’s picking a fight against the host of Heaven?” Dean tests the theory out, feels the weight of it on his tongue, like ice cream.

Kade grunts in affirmation. “Just him. He’s gonna kill him.” Kade peeks around the corner, and Dean’s surprised that Kade’s even thinking about the boys, watches the way his face twists and then flattens out, scrubbed clean.

“Angel’s gonna kill Sam if Sam doesn’t kill him first. And if he can’t get to Sam,” Kade says, smiles wryly, seems to recall how Sam operates, the way he’s like a dog with a bone when there’s something to be done. When there’s something that needs fixing.

“He’s gonna come for you.” Dean shakes his head, mostly to himself. Samael doesn’t want him dead. Against all inclination he’s kept Dean alive more times than truly necessary, or beneficial for this game. Dean knows that some of it is due to the fact that it’ll cause more trouble than he’s worth.

The latter half of him knows that there’s something else going on, something he isn’t privy to.

He’s not going to know everything until Sam decides that he’s willing to tell him. The way things are looking, it’s not seeming too viable.

Dean takes the bottles from the kitchen, and Kade follows close behind, as if he cannot stand to be too far away from him. The boy casts furtive glances around and Dean wonders what it is that he can see, what he’s sensing that Dean can’t because he’s too close to the problem.

Dec grasps at his bottle hungrily and tilts it up to his pink tongue. Pax goes slower, but then angles it upwards, latching onto the nipple with greedy teeth, sharp in his little mouth.

Things happen very quickly then.

Kade’s eyes widen and he propels himself forward, past Dean, to envelope Pax and Dec in his arms. Dean isn’t allowed a moment to be confused, because he hears dual snaps of power, and he claps his hands to his ears at the sound.

Sam tumbles into being, with Dantalion close behind, and they’re smeared with blood. They’re not soaked in it, but Dean gathers that it’s not due to a lack of trying.

Sam’s tie has disappeared completely, and the white of his dress shirt, the one he wore this morning, is singed with viscous liquid. It’s dripping down into the tan of his neck, seeping underneath his shirt like a necklace.

The rest of his body is covered in ash, grey-black contrast, and somehow his hair is still tucked perfectly behind one ear. Dantalion’s in worse wear. He’s got a gash running up his exposed arm, where suit and dress sleeve have been torn from his body.

His hair is almost black with debris and he’s breathing heavily, glancing from Sam to Dean in a perplexed fashion.

Sam doesn’t look as frantic as his appearance would suggest, and his eyes scan Dean’s body quickly but thoroughly, and he catalogues the boys in the same manner.

“Danny, how close?” Sam’s voice is calm, and he stands upright, flicks his collar up to shake loose the dust from his shirt. He steps closer to Dean, and Dean looks at the way Kade is curled around the boys, the way they haven’t once cried out.

Dantalion straightens up, labors to pull his breathing back under control. He doesn’t immediately answer.

Pax runs soothing fingers over Kade’s soft hair, and Dec hasn’t released his bottle an iota. Dean still wants to tell him to get the hell back. Wants to growl it for fuck’s sake, but he’s stuck to his spot, thinks Sam might be projecting his fear, and it’s incredibly unhelpful, because Dean needs movement this very instant.

“Sam. Let me go.” He says it tightly, sees the moment Sam’s realized he’s doing it again, reflexive, thick like honey in the spring.

There’s a high whine and a crash, just outside of the house, and Dean can hear the high strains of a language that sounds familiar, that sounds like something he and Sammy once knew, a long time ago. There’s a blood-curdling scream, and Dean’s reminded uncomfortably of Ruby, the way her back bowed when she wailed herself hoarse.

Body curving in like looseleaf paper, and Dean understands. Dean can see that Sammy’s got too much to explain, but something horrible is happening, and Sam wasn’t prepared for it.

“My Lord.” Dantalion’s voice is a far cry from the chocolate cream it had been earlier that day. It’s ragged, sounds like smoke inhalation and regret, and Sam turns to face him automatically. Dean sees the understanding that passes between them, and it hits him, violent in the pit of his stomach.

They’re a team.

It’s not quite centered, Dean’s not delusional enough to believe it’s anything like what they have, resembles the relationship they’ve honed since birth, but he can see that they’re cohesive. Dantalion looks at him with awareness, and Dean doesn’t have the time to examine it.

There’s another crash, like a boulder scraping against mountainous rock, and it shakes the entire house, plaster falling from the ceiling, wood creaking and then splintering with abuse. It’s discordant, and Sam skirts around Dean for the twins, pulling them up into his arms.

Pax is holding his bottle tightly and Dec’s just about a hiccup away from tears.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s face has about enough time to twist in preemptive rage before Sam nods in Dantalion’s direction. The demon claps a broad palm against the soft cotton of his shoulder and hooks the other arm behind him, catching on Kade’s limp wrist.

There’s a snick like the douse of a light, and then he’s wrapped taut, like a spring, and everything becomes nothing at all.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Sam can’t be killed.

Not by ordinary measures, anyway, and the thought of that is both comforting, and disconcerting, because that leaves Dean exposed.

He’s pretty sure that fact won’t impede Dean in attempting to do so, once his brother wakes up and realizes where they are, where they’ve been taken.

This is the safest place for them, and it’s not like he’s on good terms with any angels, in order to inquire about their protection on behalf of his family. They’re more likely to murder his boys in order to teach Sam a lesson, plant him firmly in his place.

His place, Sam thinks wryly, is situated directly on his throne.

He didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it, but it’s his now, and he’ll be damned if he loses it without a fight.

The loss of his crown would, inevitably, cost him much more than that.

He’s sent Kade to sit in his rooms alongside Dean, because he’s fairly sure Dean doesn't want his face to be the first thing his brother sees when he eventually regains consciousness.

Doesn’t mean he isn’t reaching out through the network regardless, plucking at deceptively skinny wires to see how Dean is doing. He glances at his boys, sprawled at his feet beside his throne.

They’re in the playpen he’d constructed upon arrival, the familiar giraffe decal out of place in the decidedly dark arena of his throne room. Sam can’t seem to think in any colors other than black when he’s here, but he’s not over-concerned with the fact.

This is not a place for colors, for life. He doesn’t need to force it to be.

His throne is made of glass, and, Sam has discovered, it responds to his anger. It floods internally with black smoke, seeping through the transparent channels it’s constructed of. He’s set it ablaze before, but that was an accident, and he put it out instantaneously.

Even when it’s crystal clear, shining with cleanliness, sharp angles like icicles, that doesn’t ensure that Sam is in a forgiving mood. He’s just gotten better at managing his outbursts.

Dec flings his toy car outside of the pen and begins to wail. Pax pushes his own car closer but Dec can’t see for the tightness of his shut eyelids. Sam coos gently and lifts the car with his mind, drops it softly back in his boy’s lap.

Dean hates when he does that, when he uses what he is with the twins.

They’re going to grow up with him, he thinks. They’ll find out sooner or later, better to acclimate them to it so they aren’t surprised a few years down the line. Dec’s giggling now, and Sam’s sure his boy thinks it was just a trick.

Dantalion is leaning casually next to him, because there’s supposed to be a meeting with the board, but it’s been postponed, because Sam is the only one who’ll be able to handle Dean.

He's well and truly fucked.

His right hand man looks tense, no matter the pseudo-casual sprawl his body is in. The walls are painted onyx, dim metallic sheen, like a tie, and it blends in with the suit jacket Danny’s changed into. His neck ticks once, and he glances down at Sam, mouth tightly shut.

_Don’t._

Sam allows the word to reverberate into Dantalion’s consciousness by way of the network, and, if possible, the man stiffens further. He looks somewhere above Sam’s head as he responds.

_It doesn’t matter what you do._

Sam moderates his breathing and concentrates on not scenting of the white-hot flame of anger he’s harboring inside.

_Rules haven’t changed. We don’t talk about this. If you weren’t you, I would’ve killed you already._

Dantalion corrects his stance and allows a faint smile to cross over his features at Sam's response, at odds with his wound-red eyes. Sam watches as his Form slips seamlessly between the face of his host, and Sam clears his throat. He would speak aloud but he doesn’t want to scare his pups.

They don’t seem to be aware of where they are right now, but they’ll soon be able to tell, once they get a whiff of their Papa, and smell the righteous indignation rolling off of him in waves.

_Not in front of them. You know what it does, use some goddamned self-control._

Dantalion’s response is almost instantaneous, and it prickles at Sam’s consciousness, the cacophony of noise and mingled rage. Sam can scent the dirty tang of sweat and decay, and he hears the laughter of his children falter.

_I’m using all the self-control I got in reserve, my King, so I think you’d better remember that Heaven’s gonna start knocking on our door real fucking soon._

Sam grits his teeth so hard that his jaw pops and he quickly numbs the pain. He glances down at the swirl of black smoke banking low within the opaque glass and snuffs it out, flick of his thumb. He’s going to have a heart attack, at this rate.

_Heaven’s got nothing on what you’ll get if anything happens to them. Go get the others. I’m coming to Board after I handle this._

Sam thinks Dantalion had better leave, because the only thing that’s stopped Sam from severing his already injured arm from his body, is the fact that his boys are present. Dean’ll forgive him many things, several times over, but such a display of violence in front of them is something that even he might have a difficult time coming back from.

And to be honest, it isn’t something Dean should ever be in the position to have to forgive.

Dantalion’s Form flutters once more, and then it snaps into place, forcibly. Sam’s slouch is informal, knees knocked wide, but his back is ramrod straight, and he knows Danny can hear the shudder of metal and wood as Sam’s fury courses through the building’s frame.

Like clockwork, Sam feels a nudge at the network, sees the fragile red line that tethers him to Kade. He plucks it gently, feels the slow melt of the boy’s voice down the connection.

_He’s waking up, sir. M’just gonna take him straight to you. He’s not gonna be very happy._

Sam thinks that he’s never been privy to a bigger understatement than that, but he leaves well enough alone. He can feel Dean’s presence as soon as the man snaps into full awareness, and he leans forward, bracing his elbows on knees, sharp points digging into hard flesh.

“Fuck.”

He mutters the word, coarse like sandpaper. He would rather be head to toe in mutilated corpses than to be anywhere near the maelstrom of his brother right now.

Honestly, he wishes he could get Danny to take care of this shit, too. He loves Dean, as if anyone could doubt that, anyone couldn't tell that his sphere of reference is maintained and contained of Dean. But that doesn't mean he's looking forward to having the same argument.

He hears Dean’s footsteps, and they’re approaching at a full out run. Kade’s not far behind, assuring his brother than the twins are doing fine, if he would just slow down a second, he could explain everything---

and then there’s no need to.

Sam figured this would be the easiest way for his brother to discover the truth, but he’s regretting that right now. He watches as Dean’s eyes sweep over the wide bay windows, made of fiberglass and surrounded by brick-colored Chatham.

The floor is waxed to perfection and the ceiling is comprised of four different angles, reaching up top to form a point at the very center. The paint is Davy's grey and Sam watches him carefully take in his surroundings. There’s nothing in the room save his throne, but Sam will cut off his own hand before he points this out.

Sam’s pleased to note there’s no variation in the glass of his seat, but, with the way Dean’s looking, that’s probably not to last.

“I just want a straight answer, Sam.” The words click low in his throat as his brother leans down to scoop the boys into his arms. Dec squirms impatiently, he’s been having fun. Pax seems more complacent, but not exactly pleased, either.

Dec reaches pleading hands out to him, opens and closes his fists as his long hair brushes against his forehead. “Daddy!” He only says Daddy fully when he’s distressed, and Sam’s halfway out of his seat and to his boy before he can think.

Dean’s swimming in fury, so thick Sam could potentially drown in it, but he relinquishes Dec and his face blanches considerably when Sam re-takes his seat, boy enthroned on his knee. He bounces him idly and Dec keeps tight possession of the red ball in his fist, gnaws on it hungrily.

Sam keeps one wide palm curved around Dec’s soft middle, and faces his brother, head on.

“There wasn’t any other choice. They were coming for you. All of you.” Dean wants to rage, Sam can tell, but he won’t because Pax is uncharacteristically bothered, poking his fingers in Dean’s ear and attempting to climb him like a tree.

“So you thought, hey, why not take them to the one place Dean never wanted to be?” Sam winces at the low thrum of venom in his brother’s voice, but he takes it for what it is.

“This was the safest choice. I know what’s here. I control what’s here. What can be better than that, right now?” Sam’s desperate for Dean to understand, allows the want to leach out of his voice, color the floor with broken shards.

“Fuck, Sam.” The words tumble out of Dean’s voice, too low for Pax to hear, hopefully, but he watches as his boy nuzzles closer to Dean’s neck, tight little fist caught in his long-sleeved elephant shirt.

“I would’ve rather died than bring you here, Dean. I was just out of fuckin’ options.” He pauses, rubs his left temple with one hand and pulls Dec’s body closer to his own, latent attempt at protection.

“We were ambushed. Didn’t know they were coming. We went back to that cabin, where he took you, because I think he bound you there, but I wasn’t sure how.” Dean’s face is attentive, not exactly placated, but neither is it substantially livid, either.

“It was just me and Danny, and usually, that’s good enough. Aym comes along too, pretty often, but he wasn’t there today.” Dean looks mildly confused and Sam pauses in his speech, can’t tell if he’s making anything better or he’s splintering it apart with poor words and worse choices.

“He sent some of his Wings. We only survived because--” Sam smiles sheepishly, ducks his head against Dec’s downy hair, inhaling the baby-sweet scent, cotton candy and sunrise.

“It’s---hard to kill me. Almost impossible, except under the right circumstances, or so I’m told.” Sam mutters this last dryly, like Dean doesn’t have some idea that Sam is damn near invincible. Like he’s not close to being some kind of bastardized God.

Sam straightens up abruptly, wiping his face clean of any emotion that could be used against him. He can feel her approaching, and it’s not something he’s missed. He’s been relatively avoidant of her, kept her locked inside what they’ve named the Apex.

The monstrous building he constructed on day one, little more than his mind and Kade surrounding him, poking at the tip of the sky, crooked representation of reality.

Dantalion put it quite succinctly, Sam thinks. The Apex is either a blessing or a curse. Only those who Sam wants at the top, or those he wants locked away in the dark, are allowed entrance.

Ruby is one of the latter.

He’s had her bound here, stamped a Devil’s Trap across her ribs. She’s locked within her host, and in this building, and she doesn’t look at him the same way she used to. Her eyes are carefully vacant, like she remembers something about him that he’d no longer be able to ascertain.

She’s attired in black and white, blonde hair swept up into a tight coil at the top of her head. She’s been sent to tell him something, otherwise she would be sitting back at the receptionist’s desk, mind tapped into the network, so she’s constantly available to relay important information to Sam when he’s under orders to be left undisturbed.

Sam watches some of her old flame sparkle to the surface when she glances at Dean, the way his palm is curved around the apple of Paxton’s head, pressed to his collarbone.

“Nice to see you’re up and at ‘em,” she says coldly, eyes lingering before she genuflects before Sam, head tucked against her chest.

“My King.”

Dean flinches behind her, but Sam has become so accustomed to the obsequience that he grunts in acknowledgment. She fixes her blank stare on the flooring, hands clasped behind her back.

“Great Duke Dantalion wants to let you know that the Board is waiting for you.” She pauses, her eyes shift so quickly to black and back that Sam wouldn’t notice, were he not ever aware.

“As soon as you’re ready,” she adds, after a short pause. Sam rises and she follows suit, looks up at Sam for the first time. Her cheek twitches minutely when she sees Dec in his lap, follows the line of baby up, from where he’s clinging with abandon to Sam’s neck.

She backs out of the room and Sam doesn’t think about her further, crosses down the steps that lead to his throne to gently place Dec into Dean’s open arms.

“I need to know where his men are at,” he begins apologetically, face twisted in too much sympathy and not enough time, the snow closest to sunrise.

To his surprise, Dean’s nodding along, firm look on his face, green eyes blinking down in the direction of his sons.

“Damn straight you need to know where they’re at.” Sam knows he’s gaping like a fish, and pries Pax’s fingers loose from Dec’s collar for lack of anything better to do.

Dean’s not paying any attention to him, until he suddenly glances up at Sam’s perplexed face. “Where’s Kade?” Sam blinks, again, tugs on Kade’s connection.

_Come to the Throne Room._

The boy is there so quickly that Sam knows he was lurking nearby, just in case, and Sam stiffens in his presence, knows the boy can’t see him as anything but his King, even though he’s so much less than that when he’s with Dean.

“I need you to watch them. But that means you need to be close to wherever this Board meets.” Sam’s about to trip over himself, he’s got so much to say, starting with the sudden turnaround in regards to Kade’s competency to watch their kids, but Dean flashes him a look that has him snapping his mouth shut in a hurry.

“Sir,” Kade flounders, obviously unsure as to Dean’s proper title, “are you sure?” Dean narrows his eyes. “Wanna make me less sure?”

Sam snorts, reflex honed from years of response to Dean’s snark, and Kade’s nodding. Repeatedly. Dean presses them into the kid’s arms, one by one, and they seem relatively unperturbed, although Pax wraps his fingers into Kade’s short hair almost instantly.

“You leading, Sammy, or am I gonna have to go exploring?” Dean’s voice comes out teasing, but Sam didn’t get this far by showing his idiot.

“What the fuck, Dean, you’re this close to losing your damn mind if you think I’m taking you in there.” Dean walks a few paces away from Kade and glares up at Sam.

“Then fucking call me crazy, Sam, because that’s exactly what I think you’re gonna do.” Sam runs his hands haphazardly through his hair and then wills it back into position. Dean raises his eyebrows at the display but doesn’t comment.

“You aren’t built for this. They’re violent, damned and fucking pissed, all the damn time.” Dean curves his mouth up in a smile, the same one that gets Sam to take him from behind, with one look, flatten his torso over the couch and pound until Dean’s head is lolling.

“Then we should get along great.” The smirk fades, and then there’s only Dean, exposed for Sam’s retention. “You don’t have to do this alone, Sammy. If you’re in it, I’m in it.” Sam narrows his eyes.

“That doesn’t mean I’m still not planning on killing you, but I’d rather tackle this first, if you don’t mind, Your Majesty.”

Sam wants to punch him for that one, but he refrains, because Dean’s right. At least, if Dean’s gonna do this, Sam’s got full knowledge of the mistake he’s about to make in letting it happen. Things are infinitely messier when Dean makes his own way, Sam knows from experience.

Although, he’s probably not one to talk.

Sam begins to walk ahead of Dean, can sense that Kade is following at close proximity, and he likes that he can feel the twisted scents of his boys, sleepy and heavy as the day runs on.

Sam cracks his neck just outside of the board room, and adjusts his already immaculate suit. He glances down at Dean, half-quirk to his mouth as Dean looks down at himself and grunts, seeing as he’s been re-dressed.

“Fucking hate that.” His brother mutters, passing callused palms over the sweeping fabric of his new suit. It’s not black, like Sam’s, it’s dove grey, with a complimentary silver tie. Suit jacket is made of seersucker, and it’s left open to expose the stark white of Dean’s dress shirt.

Sam thinks he may have outdone himself, but he doesn’t follow the train of his lewd thoughts, because Dean’s face is about to split from his self-satisfied grin.

“Thinking about using your freaky ass powers to do the opposite, later?”

Sam doesn’t even dignify that with a response, simply nudges at the doors with his mind and watches as they slide open, soundlessly.

He doesn’t have to glance at Dean to know his brother’s face is impassive. Dean wears his attitude like a second layer, and if Sam didn’t have so much practice at cracking it, he’d recoil from the blizzard-chill his brother is exuding, scent of frostbite and dead air.

Eligos is rising almost before Dean is fully in the door, offering his seat in deference. The man leaves in order to secure another chair, and Sam’s surprised to see Alpha tumble forth at the gesture. He’s been relatively silent since Sam spirited them all to safety.

Sam can sense the satisfaction in his wolf, and Sam has to brace himself, because now isn’t the time for an epiphany.

Alpha’s about to get everything he’s ever wanted, in one fell swoop, and, unlike Sam, the beast has never cared about how he got it.

He can barely contain the animal, it nips at his mind, wants to watch a burning, because there’s a distinct threat to his pack, and he’s damn near tired of the constant turmoil.

Sam growls, such a sharp, high sound that the entire room becomes shrouded in silence, abundant like death, and Dantalion raises a calm brow in his direction.

Aym unfolds his hands, and clears his throat in response.

“I assume you called this meeting because we need to strike back.” Aym says. Bathin slams his fist down on the table, hum of a snarl in his mouth.

“Damn straight. Burn ‘em to the ground. Send their wings straight back upstairs.” Dean sniffs at the display, and Sam watches in amusement as Bathin falls silent.

“If he’s not coming himself,” Dean offers, tone controlled, “then why waste your best men?” He turns respectfully to Sam, more for appearances, but Sam already has an answer for that.

“I’m not. Dantalion and I always scout first. If you want it done right.” Sam knows Dean is a heavy proponent for doing one’s own dirty work, and he accepts his brother’s begrudging nod. “My mate’s right, though.”

Sam tucks his fingers under his chin.

“He’s not gonna come out until we hurt him.” Focalor sits up in his seat, extends a hand in Sam’s direction. “He doesn’t have anything to gain. He’s got countless Wings at his disposal--” Sam’s half rising out of his chair before he realizes it.

“He wants something, or else he wouldn’t bother fighting back! He came to my home! He’s touched what’s mine!” Sam can hear the destruction raining down around him, see the metal twist in the wall, jagged spirals, the way the entire building creaks unsteadily.

He watches as the floorboards tear themselves apart, essence of his rage. Dean wraps too tight fingers around his wrist and Sam’s blood lowers to a simmer. Alpha is vibrating with barely tempered rage, and Sam can’t understand why he allowed that.

Focalor doesn’t look at him any longer, and Danny is next to speak up.

“Then we draw him out, My King.” Dantalion’s voice is dripping sincerity, and he leans his upper half on the wood of the table.

“He’s got a thing for you, doesn’t he?” Dantalion addresses Dean for the first time since it all began, and Sam watches as Dean nods curtly.

Sam closes his own eyes as he feels the table splinter underneath the force of his malevolence. Dantalion throws his body backwards and away, and the rest push their chairs back quickly.

“He’s not bait, Dantalion.” Sam hisses.

Aym buts in, voice implacable. “No one’s saying that, My Liege. But there’s no harm in allowing the Angel to think that, is there?” It’s not Sam who answers.

“Eventually, he’s gonna want me again. He’s gonna need me to get to Sam. We can figure out a battle plan then.” Dean slaps a palm against the table, mindful of splinters.

“S’easier if we just go along with him, for now. He wants to play ball, we can do that.” Dean suddenly looks thirsty, more so than Sam’s been able to see for awhile now. He’s out, with a vengeance, push of blood against a dying wound.

Dantalion makes an approving sound, bares his teeth in a smile for Dean.

Sam is in agreement, mostly, although he’s admittedly spending the majority of his time with Alpha bowing under his heel, but he’s not averse to the idea.

“He’s expecting us to come to him.” Sam grits out, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his leather seat.

“I think we can do him one better.” Dean smirks, turns fully in his direction, pupils expanded so far there’s only the thinnest ring of moss-green remaining.

“You up for some research?”

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sigil of Ameth is located at the end of the chapter. If you'd like to reference it as you're reading, feel free!
> 
> Also, the passage Sam reads is taken from Where The Sidewalk Ends, by Shel Silverstein.

It’s not that Dean isn’t good at research.

He’s honestly probably more competent at it than most people would be, due to the fact that he was never given much of a choice. People seem to forget, that before Sammy could read, much less think, Dean was the one poring over books.

Volumes much too ponderous for a boy his size and strength, detailing to his father the best way to go about immobilizing, and then killing a Chimera, the likes of which Dean has not seen since he himself was a child.

He remembers tucking himself away, eight years old, corner of motel tables, Sammy’s One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish tucked under the left leg of the structure. Wobbled too often and Dean’s feet were real close to touching the ground, but they hadn’t quite made it, not yet.

Dad says they’ll grow in a few years, and he’ll have to duck his way through doorways and McDonald’s arches.

But right now, all Dean remembers is the way his Dad’s curled tight around Sammy, cause Sammy has trouble sleeping all the way through the night. He’s got real bad night terrors.

And so Dean spent his formative years teaching his Dad that a blessed celestial blade of bronze was needed to vanquish the beast for good, but a lance-tipped sword could work just as well, in a pinch.

Dean taught Sammy to read when he was three, real slow-like, and for awhile, Sammy babbled his way through The Cat In The Hat based on memory alone.

He never had any trouble connecting pictures to words, made the association between fur and four legs to the tall cat decorating the pages.

That's another reason Dean's so proud.

Dean glances over at where Sam is hunched over beside him, surrounded by looming stacks of demonology, Enochian scribes that have been stockpiled through wars over the years. There’s an entire section, organized meticulously, of the Demon Wars, and Dean doesn’t think there’s enough coffee in existence to get him through that pile.

Sam licks his index when he turns pages, but he only does that when he’s feeling increasingly nervous about a point.

Dean’s learned the hard way not to push.

Sam started reading on his own about a month after his fourth birthday. Dean remembers hearing him stumble, and that’s what it was, really, over his words.

_There is a place where the sidewalk ends_

_And before the street begins_

_And there the grass grows soft and white_

_And there the sun burns crimson bright_

_And there the moon-bird rests from his flight_

_To cool in the peppermint wind._

Sammy read the first sentence to him, all childish lilt, heavy air and sun kissed brow, tongue like candy.

That’s when, Dean thinks ruefully, he first realized that Sammy wasn’t never gonna be anything of what he could handle. Sammy wouldn’t ever be anyone but himself, cream warm eyes and deliverance.

Sammy mastered the first stanza in a week's time, and, Dean chuckles, never stopped after that. He doesn’t think Sam remembers that very well, recalls a time that was _before_

understands what once was and what could never again be.

So no, Dean isn’t bad at research. He’s a skimmer, while Sam’s better with retention, can take entire visual snapshots of a passage and call it up to memory when time is of the essence.

It’s why he’s _better,_ that’s for damn certain.

His brother took over active researching, with Dean as his assistant, though he never consented to being called that, when he was around eight years old. They’re here now, place they should never be, and it’s Dean squatting over a book, entirely composed of Enochian.

The twins are asleep and Dean’s got Sam keeping an eye on Kade, and, by extension, them, through that strange-ass mind communication he’s got going on with his people.

Dean grips the edge of the wooden table with four fingers, relishing the dull jab at his palm. He could scream, from the depths of his bones, about the sacrilege they’re committing here, but what good would it do, in the end?

He tugs his copy of The Angelical Language towards him, noticing that Sam is cross-referencing his own, original piece, complete with mutters under his breath. His hair is tied up in a bun, and Dean’s never permitted to see that.

The last time the bun came out, Sammy was studying for the SAT, and had Alpha-growled that he didn’t want to hear jack shit from Dean about it, so help him God.

Dean recalls this and wisely remains silent, for his own sake.

Right now he can see that Sam is localizing the entirety of the Enochian alphabet, and he catches that fond rush of love for his brother.

Sam's never been in short supply of dedication, and he doesn't seem inclined to start now.

Dean remembers what they're fighting against, what they're clamoring for, and a hot rush of blood floods his head, pushes him to lean his forehead on open palms.

Sam's eyes snap up, first time all day and he drags his chair closer immediately, swan fingers wrapping around the nape of Dean's neck.

He curls his fingers in wheat-shaded baby hairs and the warmth of his breath tickles Dean's temple.

"Baby, what's wrong?"

Dean's sick to the pit of his stomach, overwhelmed with the sticky-honeyed tang of concern. He breathes in, so deep he tastes it in his bones and leans his head back into the cup of Sam's hand.

"Fucking tired, man. S'one fight after the other." Dean's eyes slide closed and he gnaws mindlessly on the inside of his jaw.

"Didn't we win this one?" Dean grumbles, and Sam huffs out a laugh, coarse from disuse, and squeezes, just once.

"You'd like to think, wouldn't you?" Sam says. His brother makes a small pause, eyes narrowed.

"Honestly, Dean, I know you hate everything about this. Everything about what I am."

Dean sits up, inadvertently shaking away the grip Sam's got on him.

"Ah, fuck, Sam, it's never been like that. I been trying to tell you, that's not me. That ain't how I feel." Dean pauses, takes in Sam's genuinely confused face.

"I called him on accident. I said his name cause I knew he said not to." Dean shrugs when Sam's face borders on black, and his eyes flicker tawny, his wolf fizzling to the surface.

"I thought, what's the worst that can happen?" Dean's laugh is humorless.

"Everything just got fucked up, Sam. He's stronger than I gave him credit for--and don't lecture me, Sam, I know I should've researched more, but I didn't know what the fuck else to do."

He flips a page in his volume mindlessly, roughly attempts to pin together a meaning in angelic tongue.

"I can't lose you to this, Sammy. We can't win just to end up losin' in the end, here." Dean sucks in his cheeks til they're hollow, cause he's so damn bad at explaining, at pushing Sam's eyes open until they just see.

His brother isn't looking at him, and his grip is punch-strained on the open book at the table.

"Why's it gotta be a fight, Dean?" He says. "S'it so hard to just _be with me?"_

Dean twists in his seat entirely, jean-clad thigh pressed uncomfortably against Sam's own, because that's not what this is. Sam's fucking wrong.

"I'm with you! I'm never anything but with you! How the hell you gonna even say that to me?" Dean's pissed, twofold, because he's promised himself he wouldn't get riled up, wouldn’t push Sam so he fractured.

Sam catches Dean off guard when he closes one big hand over both of his brother's wrists, locks him in place with force and the heat of his glare.

"You've been pushing me since day one." Sam says. "And I understand why, I really do, but at some point, Dean, it's gotta fucking give."

Dean knows that.

He knows.

Sam plunders ahead, Demonology momentarily discarded, fingers making a necklace of bruises around Dean's bones.

"This is how it is. Til we figure out another way, we're stuck like this." Sam's eyes are shuttering towards a shift and Dean bares his neck on instinct, presses a shade closer so Sam can scent him.

His brother does just that, presses the tip of his nose against the click of Dean's pulse and inhales softly. Dean shivers at the smooth glide of his brother's incisors against his blood-flushed skin.

He exhales slowly, doesn’t want to trigger Sam’s Alpha into believing that he’s refusing to be scent-marked. His brother finally pulls away, tucks long fingers into his lap. Dean wants to do something foolish, wants to recite Shel Silverstein to Sam, make him remember, because how can he think Dean knows how to be anywhere but in his corner?

“We’ll figure this one out, Sammy, and then we’ll tackle everything else. Alright?” Dean’s hands are gripped so tightly around one another they burn, because he needs this. He wants his brother back. They work better as a cohesive unit, always have.

And they’re allowing themselves to get sloppy. Sam’s haphazardly revenge-focused and Dean, Dean’s been trying to save Sam, without first figuring out what it is he’s trying to salvage.

His boy’s in there. Underneath the hair-trigger anger and the swollen-tongue thirst for something that Dean doesn’t know how to give.

Sam’s watching him now, expectantly, and he’s slouched casually in the cantilever chair in front of the table they’re huddled around. Dean runs his fingers against the leather overlay of the chrome finish and if Sam knows he’s stalling, he doesn’t clue Dean in.

“I’m with you.”

Dean doesn’t know if that’s what his brother needs to hear, stripped clean of all the bullshit, vulture-immaculate in its brutal honesty.

Sam tugs his book closer to his body and smiles at his brother, so open and star-bright that Dean’s got to look down and away, because there’s no way in hell that’s meant for his consumption. Sam smells like satisfaction, heavy-ripe plums and sugary sweetness.

“M’not gonna let you down, Dean.”

Dean wants to tell him he knows, that his boy could never do anything of the sort. He can see that Sam below, just for a second and he knows not to press in. Sam’s afforded him that courtesy enough times in their history for him to extend the favor.

Sam braces one hand on Dean’s thigh as he flips a page, and then the hand is suddenly gone, as if Sam’s been singed.

“We’re going to have to break apart the Angel Sigil of Ameth,” Sam begins ruefully, shoving the crackled edges of the book in front of Dean’s face.

Dean raises his eyebrows at the rendering. He’s seen the sigil enough times in his life, but he’s never had any personal encounters with the race before, and he whistles through his teeth.

“Just you and me, Sammy?” He starts, hint of panic in his voice.

“You ain’t gonna let your Board take a crack at this?” It’s Sam’s turn to fix him with an unforgiving gaze and Dean shrugs, unruffled.

“Ain’t most of this shit already figured out for us?” Dean’s not averse to the idea of a little work, he really isn’t. This is the most Sam’s opened up to him in months, so far be it from him to stare a gift horse in the mouth.

Problem is, there is quite a lot of Enochian on the Sigil, and it’s arranged in as complicated a manner as anything that Dean’s ever seen. It’s composed of two circles, a pentagram and three heptagons. He leans over further, air of a sigh clogging up his throat.

“Alright. So the outer ring,” he stabs his index against the circle that brackets the meat of the sigil, “has 40 pairs of letters and numbers, it’s looking like.” Sam nods, eyes sallow in his face. He stands, long muscle and tension, and leans over the back of Dean’s chair.

Sam’s proximity is making it difficult for Dean to breathe, but now is not the time for that, even though Dean is gonna make damn sure there’s time later.

If they stay locked inside this building, Sam’s castle, then he can pretend they’re home. It’s not unlike the way Sam’s designed his den back in Louisiana, and that thought is as comforting as it is unnerving. What, exactly is Sam imitating here?

“The numbers sum to 440, Dean, which, including Michael’s number equals 441.” Sam wraps his fingers lightly around Dean’s throat, casually threatening embrace.

“They’ve worked out the names of the seven archangels. Dee did that a long time ago.” Sam says.

Dean glances down at the painting of John Dee that’s splashed on the ancient binding of the book. The pages are bound and sewn together, and Dean can see the spine is cracking in several places. He wonders what being could have perused this book so often that it’s been subjected to such wear and tear.

Dean says as much, and Sam’s fingers tighten momentarily, cutting off his air supply at such a rapid pace that he goes lightheaded. He must make a noise at that, because Sam’s suddenly in his field of vision and Dean’s so hard his dick’s gone numb.

He honestly thinks all of his blood has traveled away from his head and into the dry heat of the south.

“Fuck, Dean. You’re the one who said you were gonna work with me on this one.” He breathes the sentence directly into Dean’s slightly open mouth, and Dean squirms under the laser of attention.

“M’trying, Sammy. Can’t go around wrapping people up in your big ass paws, either.” Sam spins his chair, hands-free, and that’s one of the first times that he finds that hot, rather than simply intimidating.

He curves the thin fingers of his hand around the hollow of Dean’s neck, more than enough for him to breathe.

“This is exactly why I didn’t wanna work with you.” Sam’s got enough of a grin on his face that Dean knows he’s teasing, but Sam doesn’t stop talking, slinging his words out like writing on the wall, and Dean’s never began to keep up with the way that Sam handles his speech like weaponry.

“This what you wanted? Me to bend you over in my office? Round my men?” Sam’s voice is sloppy sweet with satisfaction, and Dean feels his dick jump against the confinement of his jeans, shark’s teeth press against the sensitive skin, and his body contracts.

“Think--that’s what you were after all along, Alpha.” Dean curls his mouth around the word, and he’s rewarded with the sharp snick of descending incisors, rolling growl from Sam’s throat.

“Damn straight.” Sam’s face suddenly lights up and Dean tries to roll back in his chair, squeal of metal against the polished floor. Dean doesn’t think that Sam’s aware that his joy comes with a ripple-wave of power, twisted in it’s black beauty, tangled kiss of light.

“I got an idea, Dean.” His voice is suddenly plaintive, ten year old Sammy, sky-wide and cracked open, so pretty it hurts deep.

“You trust me?” Sam’s abruptly serious, and it pushes Dean on a different plane, and a latent part of him notes that he’s still rock hard, chest heaving with compressed air.

“Never stopped, bitch,” might not be what Sam’s looking for, but Sam’s hand flexes inadvertently on Dean’s shoulder and then the room spins out of his view. It’s not as nauseating as the first time it happened, only mildly disorienting, feels like his body’s been pushed through a small crack in an otherwise wide door.

His neck jars back against his shoulder blades, and Sam’s hands move to his waist, ten dull knives pushing at the muscle of his obliques.

“You sure we couldn’t have just walked to the other room, Sam?” Dean says testily, because, yeah, he trusts Sam, but Sam doesn’t usually do shit just for the hell of it. Sam seals his mouth over Dean’s litany of complaints, and Dean hums in reluctant appeasement.

He pulls away just enough to snake the thumb of his right hand right down the back of Dean’s beige slacks and into the damp crack of his ass.

Dean’s uncomfortably aware that his pants are sticking to the slick collecting on his inner thighs, and he squirms in discomfort from where he’s perched on the open V of Sam’s hard thighs.

It’s then that he catches where they are, can see through the thick haze of lust that’s scenting in the room, melted syrup and cinnamon.

They’re in Sam’s Throne Room, grey walls and dark flooring, and Sam’s sitting in his fucking throne. It’s glass, or something like glass, crystalline structure, and the back of it sits high above Sam’s head. It’s covered in needle thin carvings that Dean hasn’t got the time to examine, not with the way that Sam’s bouncing him in his lap.

His brother’s face looks uncertain.

“I wanna fuck you here.” His words don’t bely any of those emotions, however, and Dean’s abdominal muscles contract when he realizes that Sam’s not really asking him.

“Want you to come, right here, in my Throne Room, on my dick, in my Throne.” Sam hisses the words out, incisors nipping the flesh of his lower lip. His eyes are sunset, flicker of hazel in the irises, and Dean glances down to where Sam’s exposed.

He can feel skin on skin and he peruses his own body,which has been rapidly divested of its own clothing. Sam’s smile is feral, and he tilts his hips up with a loud smack, his cock hitting Dean in the soft space between his balls.

“Shit, Sammy.” He bites the words out because, Sam wants what? This some kind of ego trip? Dean pulls his hands up from where he’s braced them on Sam’s chest and runs them over the cool of the throne’s armrests.

Sam’s fingers tighten against Dean’s hips, and Dean can scent the want, the cloying flavor of it, the overflow of Sam’s power.

Sam presses two fingers inside Dean’s slick channel, rough shove and then screw, tapping against his prostate with a disturbing amount of accuracy.

“You gonna let me? Shit, Dean, you gotta let me in.” Sam’s voice narrows down to a fine point, and Dean likes how raw he sounds, the way it depends on what Dean wants, in the end. Dean swivels his hips and Sam’s knees lock in an effort to make sure his fingers stay where he wants them.

“Stop talking and start doing, then.” The words have barely left Dean’s mouth before Sam’s got one forearm bracing his ass, hovering above Sam’s dick, and then he’s dropping him down, 0 to 100.

Dean doesn't even have the upper brain functioning to regret the scream he just made at the sudden intrusion.

He’s wet as fuck, glide against Sam’s thighs, but he wasn’t expecting it, and it doesn’t hurt, but it did steal every last inch of his breath away, and Sam seems to have no intention of giving it back.

Dean watches the play of muscles on Sam’s chest as he slaps Dean up and down on his cock, and Dean’s worthless to control the moans spilling out, the soft keens for more.

“This it, Sam?” Dean huffs out after a particularly brutal thrust. Sam’s eyes inch that much further toward the shift and Dean feels his cock throb in response. Sam slaps, open palmed, at his ass, alternates between cheeks until Dean’s inching away from Sam’s hands, further onto his dick.

Sam rubs one thumb around the slippery head of his cock, scarlet and weeping, presses the digit in between Dean’s lips and starts bouncing Dean in earnest, using only his legs for leverage.

Dean’s so goddamned full he can’t get in enough air, and there’s so much space on this seat, wonders how Sam can fuck him this well and not slide off, can see the sweat damp curl of Sam’s hair on the nape of his neck.

“Gonna let me do all the work, sweetheart?” Sam whispers, juxtaposition of his thrusts and words causing Dean to tense in pleasure.

“M’gonna get you there,” Sam mutters, encircling the place where they’re joined, slick-wet rim split wide around Sam’s girth, just shy of too much.

Sam presses in with his index, inexorably, and Dean wails, fucking panting, cause Sam’s a monster, and he’s trying to what, spear him open for good? Dean wiggles back against it in invitation, mouth hung open, and sighs when he hears the faint pop that means the first inch or so of Sam’s finger had slid home, dirty-warm heat.

Sam’s face is wild, and the snarl that tumbles forth, out of a raw throat, has more than a hint of Alpha in it, and Dean tilts his neck seamlessly, sucking air into asphyxiated lungs.

“You’re so goddamn pretty, baby.” Sam croons, sand-glass voice, rough like gravel.

Dean’s distantly aware of a high-pitched _huh uh uh_ sound, and it barely registers that it’s him, not with the way that Sam’s looking at him, fucking lava in his bones, like he could sit here and take Dean apart on his dick like this, for the rest of eternity, ruin him for walking and breathing forever.

“S’right,” Sam slurs, Alpha hormones heady in his own blood. “Fucking ride your King.”

Dean’s shooting all over Sam’s chest so quickly it seizes him up in surprise and his chokes on his own cries, screams all the way through as the sticky tip of his dick connects with the curled abs of Sam’s hunched-over chest.

Sam doesn’t even pretend like he can hold off after that, holds Dean down so hard on his knot that it tugs at some internal organs, and Dean can feel the thick warmth of Sam’s come filling him up, unabated.

Dean’s forehead drops onto Sam’s sweat-damp shoulder and he focuses on remembering how to inhale and exhale.

“King, huh?” Sam whispers, and it should be a joke, but Sam didn’t say it with a teasing lilt, it was low and serious, as if Sam plans to keep Dean locked to his dick until he answers, forces him to make sense of word-debris he doesn’t know how to navigate.

Dean’s about to diffuse the situation, because now is not the time for any of that, when he sucks in a sharp breath, jerks backwards so quickly he almost dislodges Sam from his ass.

“Holy shit, Dean, be still!” The command is unnecessary, but Dean takes his brother’s face in between his own palms, tucks flyaway strands of hair behind Sam’s right ear.

“Can demons touch angel Sigils?” Sam’s lips tighten.

“No,” Sam says. “They can’t even understand Enochian. S’not in their nature. Why?”

Dean presses his forehead against his brother’s and laughs, cuts it short at the painful-good jolt of pleasure it sends to where they’re joined so tightly.

“Gonna give you one guess, Sammy. If they can’t even be _around_ anything that’s holy, who’s read that damn book so much it’s falling apart?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Here is the Sigil of Ameth, which will be used in subsequent chapters. If this is confusing to you (I don't intend to break it down exactly the way Dee does, because that would involve pattern recognition and other things I'm sure you're not interested in), or you're just curious, feel free to ask me any questions. I thought it might be helpful to know what they're studying/researching.


	20. Chapter 20

There’s a level set of things that Sam can do without seeing.

He can't see Dean clothed in blood, and that's been broken since he was seven, his brother wearing the life of another wolf, scoured from head to toe.

He can't see Dean sick. Twists something up inside of him and prods him with the need to ensure Dean's recuperation. Has to wrap him up, smother him in gold and warmth.

However, he's now gathering that also pretty high up on that list is running into Dantalion, balls deep inside Ruby. He’s proud of himself for only managing a sardonic smile as Danny pulls out and comes all over the blush-cream of her naked back.

Ruby squeaks once, in mortification, when she turns her head slightly to the left, catches Sam leaning against the doorjamb of one of the offices in her suite.

It’s not Danny’s office, his rooms are located on the uppermost echelon, Sam’s floor, closest of anyone else, next to Aym. She tugs her skirt back past her torso, just shimmies it down her legs, and crumples her underwear up into her fist. Resolute, Ruby.

“Just gonna hit and run?” Dantalion slurs, post-orgasm. He’s lethargically going about tucking himself away, and Sam glances over at Ruby for her knee jerk response.

“Fuck you.” She spits, running a cautious hand over top of the slight tilt in her bun.

Danny’s grin is broken-open, and Sam can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him, because the Duke looks so pleased with himself that he’s generally overflowing with it.

“How can I not, when you ask so pretty?” Danny winks, and Ruby barely manages to bow for Sam before she’s clicked her way out of his presence, Tom Ford heels and cum stains on her upper thigh.

Dantalion shoves his Windsor knot further up his neck and tosses Sam a lopsided grin. He bows at the waist and then straightens, good-nature still hovering over fine features. Sam jabs a thumb in the empty air where Ruby was standing a few seconds ago.

“How long’s that been going on?” Sam's not too perturbed by the state of affairs. He controls most everything but the carnal pleasures of his men, and, if it benefited him in some way, he'd have a hand in that, too. As it is, it's a source of great amusement to him, and that's something he's ever in short supply of.

Danny shrugs, uncaring. “Not long. She’s fun to fuck around with.” Dantalion’s eyes narrow and then the casual slouch has disappeared. Sam tugs at the crease in his slacks, open slope of his dark blue dress shirt.

"How you feeling right now, then?" Sam says. "After that," he clarifies.

“Fucking stressed. Damn Hosts are coming to burn us to the ground, again. Fucking assault charge, like Lucy’s outta the Cage and dancing.” Sam hums noncommittally, understands just how much Dantalion doesn’t want this confrontation.

Actually, that’s wrong.

Danny loves bloodshed, wants a pair of Angel wings to add to the collection he’s already housing in his suite. He’s gotten a few from Wars in the past and they’re all of them battered, dull sheen of former Heavenly Glory, and Dantalion’s itching at the bit for some new additions.

Sam’s got no qualms with that. If God’ll allow His Host to come after his family, who are nothing if not innocent, Sam’ll place no barrier on just how many wings his army can sever from the groaning backs of the righteous.

But, he knows Dantalion isn't going to feel anywhere near secure until they have a battle strategy. And, on the other hand, Dean wants to take something that Samael loves.

Sam really needs the time to pore over the Sigil of Ameth, and Dean’s been coming up with battle plans since before Sam knew how to think. His brother’s better suited for that arena than the tedious monotony of cross-referencing facts. Dean won’t accept that the backbone of research is simply comparing facts that others have already discovered long before them.

Dee has already developed the system for deciphering the Angelic names.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and nods in Dantalion’s direction.

“Dean’s got a good head for strategy.” Sam says. “If he works with you today, think you can play nice?” It’s a loaded question. Danny knows that there isn’t really another option, but Sam’s got a lot on his plate, and doesn’t have the patience for blatant threats right now.

Dantalion raises his eyebrows and toys with the edge of his cufflinks.

“Shit, me?” The demon says, eyes widened comically. “I’m fucking appalled, Your Highness.”

“Makes two of us, then.” Sam stiffens at the sound and Danny doesn’t miss the way his eyes slide shut in distress. He hasn’t had a chance to pose the same question to Dean, and now his brother’s gonna think there’s been a conspiracy behind his back.

Alpha’s a bit miffed at Dean, and that’s saying something, because his wolf can’t so much as fathom Dean’s implication in any wrongdoing.

“Dean.” Sam says casually, unwilling to offer more until his brother plays his hand.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Sammy. Not that I ain’t interested in playing dress up with old boy over here, but what exactly are you gonna be up to?” Sam can hear the pinch-tight politeness in Dean’s voice, smooth as chilled butter, and he’s groaning internally.

“Dantalion, don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” Sam’s voice is laced with all of the acrimony he can maintain without bursting the surrounding walls into flame. There’s a distant thump he recognizes as the breakneck pace of his heart, and he barely registers the way Danny exits, one hand smoothly resting in the pocket of his slacks.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when he does, Sam’s still not facing him. He’s got his eyes shut, _click click_ of his pulse in his lungs and he feels like he’s going to flay himself alive, smell like brimstone in his coffin.

“What the fuck, Sam? You and me, we work together. Very least, we fucking talk about shit first!” Dean’s voice is low and heated, and Sam knows he hasn’t quite worked himself up to the paragon of anger he has the potential of becoming.

Dean steps closer, and Sam can feel that, tenses his back because he _does not want this_

wants there to be a line of space between his person and his brother, and Dean won’t understand.

“Sam, pay some goddamn attention!” The words are glass-jagged, and Sam’s left shoulder blade twitches under the onslaught.

He opens his eyes as the red-oak desk in front of him explodes into pulverized smithereens, settling in a thick heap of dust on the floor. The executive chair squeals across the room and shatters against the dull shade of the opposing wall, dismembered wheels rolling silently in the air.

Sam’s incisors slide up and away, his body bowing under the release.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice is careful, monotone threaded with concern, and that almost infuriates Sam more than the assumption did.

Sam’s turn is an easy glide, one hand braced against his thigh, hidden pretty in the pocket of charcoal slacks.

“I was gonna ask you if you’d rather work on battle plans than go over the Sigil one more goddamn time.” Sam’s tongue is loose with propriety, and he’s smiling, etched like marble on his face. He’s not angry anymore, but he is thrumming with the latent energy that comes from expending himself, the residue of challenge.

Dean’s dress shirt is open at the neck, and Sam can see the slight flush at his throat where Dean is working up the air to say something. It’s really probably better for him to stay ahead, Sam thinks, passively.

“So...was there a point to that?” Dean waves his arm expressively, motioning to the destruction remaining of the room, and Sam doesn’t bother turning around. He juts his hip out just enough to brace his body against the unmarred wall and shrugs.

“I need you to start listening to me, Dean.” Alpha is mollified, languid in his throat, but Sam’s still _alive,_ and he wants so much more than he’s just allowed himself to have.

“M’always gonna be honest, with you. But this is hard enough without feeling like you’re not in my corner.” Sam says. “You wanna fight it out, by all means.” Sam steps closer, no communication from mind to body until he’s looming over his brother, index and thumb curled underneath Dean’s chin.

“But it’s time for you to have a little faith in me, Dean.” Sam leans low, so he can whisper directly into Dean’s ear, and his brother shudders at the forced intimacy of the act. The cool of Sam’s smile brushes against Dean’s cheek as he removes himself, and Sam grins smugly when he feels the tight heat of his brother’s erection against his own thigh.

“Goddamn wild animal, princess,” he hears Dean mutter, all snark and little bite. Dean comes back to himself abruptly, not even bothering to hide how he adjusts himself in his pants.

“So, your bitch and I are about to play house while you, what, set up a hidden army or something?” Dean says.

Sam shakes his head and places his hand on the small of Dean’s back as he guides him out of the room. “Nah, Dean, stop being an ass for like, two minutes, alright?” Sam stifles a grin when he watches Dean tightly cross his arms over his chest.

He pauses to appreciate the way the linen curves over the hard line of muscle in his brother’s biceps, before moving over to the elevators.

Ruby has resumed her position at the stainless steel receptionist’s desk, clicking away mindlessly on the Mac before her, clearly tuned out of the network, for now. Dean shoots her a grin that she pointedly ignores, and that sparks a wiretrip of heat down Sam’s spine.

“Ruby.”

They come to an abrupt halt, and Sam ignores the way Dean looks up at him quizzically. Ruby’s back stiffens and her fingers die down over the keys, soft residual click of finality. Sam raises his hand and twitches his index and middle fingers in tandem.

Ruby’s body rises in the air at the same time that her office chair skids backwards and out of reach. It clatters harmlessly against the wall and Sam uses his index to turn her to face him, still hovering a few feet off of the ground.

Dean’s corpse-stiff beside him, both hands jammed into his pockets, and he’s not looking at Sam.

“I know manners aren’t your strong suit, Ruby, but I think my mate, for whatever reason, acknowledged you.” Sam’s not in his own head, he’s watching himself, alongside Alpha, and he’s surprisingly unconcerned with the detachment he feels.

He’s careful to keep his voice painfully polite, and he rocks his finger back and forward, smacking Ruby’s head sideways, sharp crack of her neck.

Dean moves his foot.

“I don’t stand much on ceremony,” Sam muses aloud, swings Ruby’s limp body a few inches to the left and back. Her face is implacable, except for the lingering fear in her eyes, and Alpha bows his head in affirmation of it.

“I’m a pretty laid back guy, I like to think,” Sam says, “but, when the King’s consort addresses you, don’t you think the respectful thing to do is to respond?” Sam’s fingers tighten sharply and Ruby’s hands fly up to her neck, frame the throat in quivering fingers.

Dean’s body tenses, and Sam feels it like a blade, is ever aware of what Dean does in the circumference of Sam, sphere of his brother.

“If I’m not around, you answer to him. Would you treat me that way?” Sam’s voice is achingly calm, and it’s such a relief to be able to manage himself, to know that he’s in complete control of what he chooses to say and do at this point.

Rivulets of blood run down the neck of Ruby’s host, and Sam watches as the color depletes from her face, pale of rot.

She’s clawing for her air frantically, and Sam wonders how much it would take to immobilize her, slaughter her host. She can’t leave the body, she’ll remain trapped inside. He’s heard it’s like clothing oneself in garbage, riding a deceased host, struggle to inhale.

“What do you wanna be called, Dean?” Sam doesn’t need to look at his brother to know that Dean is staring at Ruby, back stiff as pine, both hands jammed deep into his pockets.

“Whatever makes you feel fancy, Sammy. We’re wasting time here, anyway.” There’s something off in his brother’s tone, but when he turns to look, Dean’s face is the faint smirk of the amused, and Sam returns his gaze to Ruby, eyes zooming forward until he can see the coagulation of blood underneath broken fingernails.

Sam curls his index and middle back into the family of his fist, so tight the knuckles ache, bone deep. She clatters to the floor, clips the side of her head onto steel as she falls five feet back to the ground. She catches herself at the last instant, droplets of blood splattering against the finish of the desk.

Sam turns, even coast of leather wingtips, and Dean’s already walking, head slightly bowed.

“Do your job, Ruby,” Sam calls, not bothering to turn back around. “I’m sure His Grace doesn’t want everyone else to make the same mistake you did.”

It takes Sam one and a half steps to put himself back on even footing with his brother, and Dean glances up once, flat of green in his eyes. “I want what he loves.” Dean reiterates, like Sam doesn’t already _know_

like he isn’t planning on bending himself backwards to acquiesce to his brother’s demand. If that’s something Dean needs, then Sam’ll do it.

“I got that, man. We aren’t any closer to finding out what that thing is, though.” Dean pauses, allows Sam to lead the way, and Sam wills the door open, sees Dantalion and Aym at the far end of the conference table, engrossed in heavy discussion.

Danny’s Form is a hazy mist above his own head, and Sam absently reaches out with his mind and firmly snaps the second face back within, jerk of his wrist. Both demons look up, sensing Sam’s presence, and bow in his direction.

Dean’s not paying them any attention, but he’s glancing up at Sam, mouth still stretched in that firm line, unforgiving and silent. “That’s what I need from you, Sammy. I need you to find out what that is, and tell me.”

Sam’s damn confused, and it must show on his face, because his brother reaches up and places a scarred palm against the rough hair of his cheek.

Sam means to ask him what he wants after, what his brother is searching for, but Dantalion approaches, and he doesn’t have the chance to.

“Your Majesty.” He nods at Sam, apparently too focused to grin blithely, as is his usual custom. “Your Grace.” He inclines his head toward Dean, and Sam watches his brother closely for his reaction. Dean doesn’t so much as flinch, but he does move around Dantalion to take a seat at the table.

He leaves the head open for Sam, which, while appreciated, is unnecessary, because Sam won’t be staying long enough to need it.

“Sam’s gonna be doing some research on his own.” Dean folds his hands across the table and plucks at the black of his slacks. Dean’s not over-comfortable in colors, they highlight him more than he thinks his brother likes to allow, but Sam’s keen on dressing him as brightly as he deserves.

Of course, that means that he isn’t permitted to dress him as liberally as he wants, and so Dean opts for colors as dark as Sam’s own. There’s something about it that unsettles Sam, but he doesn’t really want to look too deeply at it, doesn’t want that introspection that will come from being alone, the wine-dark abyss of knowing.

“While that motherfucker is busy with whatever Sam’s coming up with, that’s when I want us to be ready.” Dean’s saying.

Aym’s resting his chin on one propped fist, but Dantalion’s positively salivating with glee.

“Your Grace.”

Sam leans his hip against the wall closest to Dean and watches several emotions flit across Dean’s face. Dean settles on impassivity and arches an eyebrow at the deference.

“I want--” Dantalion’s grinding his teeth, and Sam watches as his man braces himself against the table. It’s too fast for Dean to catch, but Sam can see every instant in glowing Technicolor, the quick snap between Danny’s true Form and the face of his host.

Sam’s amused, observes in fascination as Dantalion struggles to debase himself, ignores the desire to take everything he wants.

Aym is older, better at maintenance.

That doesn’t mean Sam can’t see the hairline sliver of demonic rebellion in Aym, the way his eyes grow smooth as stones, when he decides he’s just about to do what he needs to.

When Danny finally straightens, Dean hasn’t moved a muscle, in fact, he’s bracing his body on his elbows, sleeves of his twilight-blue dress shirt shoved so far up his arms they collect at the bicep.

“What do you want?” It’s the same tone of voice that Dean uses when he’s baiting a monster, when he wants to test how far he can push them. What’s the limit between too much, the fracture of just enough and total recall?

It’s blinding, Sam realizes, unbuttons the top button of his own shirt so he can breathe, swelter of arid heat and focus.

Damp like the sun.

“I want his Wings.” Dantalion grinds the words out, clenched teeth and hate, and even Aym has stiffened in his seat, eyes flickered to scarlet. Sam steps forward, because those aren’t Danny’s to claim, and the bastard knows it.

Alpha is a hum in his mind, latent buzz of chemicals and honey, and Dean turns halfway in Sam’s range. “Wait.” Sam stutters to a stop, hand already half removed from his pocket to send Danny hurtling onto the nearest surface.

Aym will bide his time before he rises, and Sam knows he’s damn strong enough to handle them both at one time. Sam can feel the blood collect where he’s broken the skin, digging half-moons into the palm of his hand in the disuse of obedience.

“What makes you think you deserve ‘em?” Dean’s smile is heavy, not quite his own, but still undeniably Dean. Dantalion doesn’t answer, remains as stationary as he knows how to be.

“They’re mine.” Dean pauses, and it’s so thick in the air that Sam honestly wonders whether or not he will suffocate from it.

“Your King’s gonna cut them off himself, for me.” Dean pushes his chair away from the edge of the table, just a fraction. “You’re welcome to take as many of them down as you want, and those are yours. Fucking cook ‘em over a fire, I don’t care.”

Dean’s posture relaxes, and Sam knows he’s done, he’s laid himself bare and he doesn’t expect to need to do so again.

“Just leave me to mine.”

Aym’s gaze is collected on his brother’s, slight hunch of respect, and Dantalion’s face is locked into subservience, but there are lines of a smile around his mouth that Sam has no doubt his brother will witness later.

It’s then that Sam recalls what he wanted to ask Dean earlier, in regards to his research. Dean doesn’t look like he’s ready to be deterred, though, and Sam watches quietly as Danny unrolls a comprehensive map and spreads it out over the table.

This is to be for the long haul, then. 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Dec’s crawling across the length of his Daddy’s desk and back again, glances down at the floor when he gets too close to the edge.

Sam’s hand is braced at the end, Dean can tell, ready to use his fucking superpowers to save Dec from an inevitable fall. He’s reading, pages flipping over one another so quickly that Dean can’t be sure he’s really taking everything in at once.

Pax is huddled somewhere underneath Sam’s legs, at the bottom opening of the desk, and Dean catches the slight jostling of Sam’s right leg as he bounces Pax up and down on his foot.

He can hear Paxton’s throaty giggles, catching like flies inside his younger sons chest, and there’s something too loose and bright inside him to explain.

He misses their home.

It’s not so much what it looked like, what it was, but he misses the open beauty of belonging, the way he was meant to be. He misses the thick air of Louisiana, too spicy food and colors on the end of the spectrum of existence.

He misses Bobby.

He knows he could go back, if he wanted to. Sam’s face would touch that hollowed-out quality he gets when he’s reached the end of something, the one he thinks he hides so well. Dean’s not going to be the one to make him wear it, not ever again.

The boys are too young to know where they are, to care or be affected by it, and that’s a weight that Dean’s been bearing the brunt of, all alone. They’re a direct representation of he and Sammy, and he’s got to do right by them.

He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t explain that he’s bound to do well by them, no matter the cost, because what’s the purpose of lies, even in his own head?

Dec’s foot slips, (he’s walking across, now), and Dean’s already in motion, but he’s not faster than Sammy, won’t ever be, never again. Dec’s suspended in the air, hovering the three feet from desk to shining wood, and he’s giggling like it’s the best thing to ever happen to him.

“Do it’gin!” Dec commands, resting on a sheaf of papers that Dean’s sure Sammy needs. Sam’s not looking at his book right now, though, he’s all eyes for his boy, brows raised at the way Dec thinks he can bully his way into anything.

He reaches down for Pax, lifting him from his foot, and Dean watches as Pax stands, only a little help needed from Daddy’s thumb.

They’ll be two in a month.

“Wike Dec, Daddy.” Paxton’s so serious when he asks, that Dean dares Sammy to do anything but humor him. Dec’s pushing himself up onto his knees at that, desperately trying to beat Pax to the punch.

“Wanna!” Dec cries, and Dean steps forward, scoops his boy right up into his arms. “World ain’t yours, sweetheart.” Dec squirms, but holds still, reprimanded well enough. Pax walks slower than Dec, but he’s just as excited, flush of joy in amber eyes.

Dean’s heart’s beating frenetically, and he can feel Dec press his face close to his neck, allows Dean to scent him thoroughly.

Pax pauses, right at the tip, and ostensibly meets Sam’s gaze. Sam laughs right out, throws his head back on a guffaw and Dean’s never going to love anyone else but him, just like that.

You don’t forget the taste of air.

Dec squeals when Daddy catches Pax, right on the cusp of falling, wheels him around, index finger turning, and places him gently in the center of the wood.

“That what you wanted, little man?” Sam growls, catches him around his soft middle, long fingers poking at the flesh. “I wasn’t gonna let you fall. Not you, baby.” Sam’s a murder of words, licorice sweet of his tongue, and Pax climbs right into his lap, pops his thumb in the vulnerable pink of his mouth.

Dean situates Dec so that he’s elevated on his shoulder blades, and the boy needs to learn gentility, with the grip he’s got on tufts of Dean’s hair.

Sam hears it before Dean does, he’s halfway out of his seat, Pax perched on the cut of his hip, red of his shirt sliding off of the small shoulder.

Dean can scent Dantalion’s approach now, distinct smoke of the man, and he’s in motion, because, the other scent he couldn’t place, that’s rage. It’s living and too vibrant, and Dec’s voice dies in his throat.

The door to Sam’s suite swings wide open, slamming against the wall with enough force that it cracks the plaster.

Neither of his children cry out.

Dean’s never seen speed the way he witnesses, and it’s such a cause for alarm, such a breakneck pace that everything slots together, like a ruined jigsaw.

Dean rocks backwards with the force that Sam places Paxton into his arms, and then Dantalion is skewered on the ceiling, and Sam’s entire office is atremble behind them, various books knocking against one another in his fury.

The lights abandon them at one point, and it’s then that Dean’s forcibly reminded that they’re in the bowels of Hell.

The only light that illuminates the room comes from the window, and it’s a pinched red haze, and it bathes the entirety of the space.

“There’s little that would make me kill you, Dantalion, but you hit the mark this time.” Sam’s hands are by his side, but his face is raised up so he can more clearly see the man’s face.

“Your Majesty,” Danny wheezes, and Dean gets the impression that Sam is severing his air supply, same as he did to Ruby a few months back, but Dantalion’s hands never move from where Sam’s got them glued to the planes of the ceiling.

“He wants the souls. He wants the ones we’ve risen from the dead.” Dean steps forward, voice brittle.

“Let him go, Sam. Put him down.” Pax’s face is tilted as far up as his father’s, wide-eyed, but Dec’s stare is trained on Dean’s, following the cadence of his voice.

Sam tears his gaze away.

“Dean.” Dean’s nodding, because he understands, this thing, that they’ve fashioned is hinged on a set of unbreakable rules, and one has just been flouted.

“S’for a good reason, Sam. Let him down.”

Danny slides to the floor with a substantial thump, and Dean can forgive, or, at least overlook his slight, due to the way that the demon doesn’t even acknowledge what just transpired, the way he hurtles himself the remainder of the way in the room and adjusts his suit jacket.

Dean wonders what the dress code for Hell was before Sammy came to power.

Chainmail, maybe?

“He’s collecting on deals that aren’t his. He wants the souls for his own. He knows they aren’t his to claim, wasn’t written on ‘em.” Danny’s vibrating with betrayal, and Dean can see what Sam sees in him, the latent respect.

He’s got a twisted sense of morality, sheathed in blood and war, but it beats, nonetheless.

Dean’s confused when Kade shows up a few minutes later, breathing labored, face streaked with a little dirt, the way it always is. He realizes that Sam must have been communicating through the network, and it speaks volumes with the way Dean trusts the kid when he places the twins in his hands, no complaints.

He’ll be aware of them, have Sam tapped into wherever they are, and that assuages his guilt at how quickly he needs them out of this room, away from the malevolence swimming in the air. It’s so heavy Dean doesn’t know how he ever missed it, ever mistook it for anything it once was.

He watches as Kade glances at Sam and absently kisses the top of the twins heads, looks back at Dean, dull-shut.

Sam’s arms are folded across his chest, and Dantalion has stopped speaking, seemingly waiting for Dean’s full attention.

“Your Grace,” Dantalion says, voice devoid of all emotion but respect. “Your Majesty. The deals belong to you. He wants the risen souls.” Dantalion’s wringing his hands at this point, like they have no further option but to act, and Dean’s having trouble keeping up with the word vomit.

He steps forward, in confusion, but Sam beats him to it.

“The deals Lilith made? Only the ones where she raised someone from the dead, as part of the exchange?” Dean cringes. Alright, well, when Sam puts it that way, it makes perfect, morbid, sense.

Sam begins to pace, and Dean pushes his body far from reach.

“Those aren’t his. They forfeited the right when the deal was made.” Dantalion’s nodding vigorously, and he waves his hands around.

“He’s holding them hostage. He wants to speak to you.” Danny says.

Sam laughs, feral, and grins. “I don’t want to talk to him. The next time we speak’ll be during battle.” The words are lowly spoken, but final, and Dean leans against the edge of Sam’s disheveled desk.

“What do you think he wants, Sam?” Dean asks, and Dantalion stiffens.

“You. My kids. My fucking Throne.” Dean ponders this, knows Sam’s right. He also knows that Sam shouldn’t meet with him, not on terms like this, where it’ll seem like Samael is pushing their hand.

Sam rises, and Dean watches as he blinks twice, purposeful and slow. He’s connecting with his men, Dean realizes. He’s about to do something.

Sam’s addressing Dantalion when he finally speaks, but he pulls Dean close to his side, fingers pale with suppressed rage.

“Let him keep them. Tell him the Host can do whatever they want with them.” Sam grins, and it’s crooked, graceful lines.

“They’re not his. The Father won’t _accept_ them.” Sam says this last so contemptuously that Dean knows that Sam’s studied this fact, is sure beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Dantalion’s smiling, and he leans forward, hands braced on thighs. “I’ll do it. I’ll tell his men. Who do you want me to take along?” Sam’s waving a hand, he’s not finished.

Dean grabs his brother’s arm, wary. “Sam, what if their deals aren’t due yet? The person that made the deal for the risen family member, husband, what the fuck ever, what about them?” Dean doesn’t mean to be that guy, that person, but that’s something to consider.

Sam should’ve already figured that one out.

His brother doesn’t miss a beat.

“Collect the deals. One year left, five, I don’t care.” Sam says.

Dantalion’s halfway turned to the exit on that command, and Focalor and Aym stride into the room next, obviously summoned.

Sam’s still talking, Dean registers, over the roar of his own blood. “They made a deal. If it’s broken, it’s over. I want my souls.” Sam taps his forehead in thought. “If he gives ‘em back, then I’ll return mine, too.”

Sam buttons up his sleeve plackets in silence, raising his head as he finishes the last.

“Either way, I’ll get mine.” Dantalion’s absolutely brimming with joy, molten in the air, and Aym and Focalor look, if not as outwardly pleased, more than willing.

Dean allows them to exit before he turns on his brother, violent.

“What if he doesn’t give ‘em back, Sammy? What if he keeps ‘em, wherever the hell they’re locked up?” Sam glances at his countenance, and his own inches into contrition.

“Then I’ll keep mine, too. I told you, Dean, they made the deal. Their souls are mine, whether it’s this year, or ten years to the day.” Sam says. “S’not like I’m doing anything they don’t know is coming for ‘em.”

Dean can’t argue with that, because it’s so Sammy, so true and logical that it makes him want to cry for it, beat his head against wood and steel.

That’s the worst of it, right there.

That it’s his brother.

Sam’s face is concerned, and he tugs Dean right down on his lap, braces his weight against his knee.

“Fuck, Dean, m’not trying to piss you off, here. But he can’t keep calling all the shots, either. I want this to blow up in his face. Want him to see my men and know, I’m calling his bluff.” Sam snorts out a laugh and it jostles Dean gently.

“He thinks he’s getting one over, taking what’s not his, again.” Sam says.

“I’ve been lookin’ Dean, like you wanted, and there’s a couple of things he likes a little more than he should.” Dean’s inside himself, decayed, but he knows this is what he wants, more than anything. “What is it, Sam?”

Sam rustles through the disarray of papers on his desk, sighs in disappointment. He knows he won’t be able to find what he needs from sight alone, now. Dean rests his head against Sam’s shoulder, leans back and breathes deep, counts to ten.

_Count before you hit somethin’ Dean, not after, you asshole._

“You wanna know, baby?” Sam whispers, heavy and dark against his ear, and Dean tightens his thighs against the startling pool of arousal in his gut.

He won’t accept that from his brother, not right now.

He nods anyway, voice too far away to be re-claimed.

“Agrat bat Mahlat.” Dean’s sitting up in a flash, spine bumping against Sam’s sternum, but then his brother’s mouth is sealed, hot-tight over his own, and he pushes his tongue in between Dean’s lips like he’s owned the place, always.

He bites at the soft full of Dean’s lower lip and releases, and Dean’s left somewhere trying to patch himself back up again. His cock is insistent and aching on his thigh, and he’s seen Sam’s dick often enough to recognize the hot push against his ass.

“Angel-demon of sacred prostitution,” Sam hisses, runs his incisors down the length of Dean’s neck until he bumps up against the ridge of collarbone.

“Daughter of deception,” Sam’s murmuring now, and he snakes his palm down the tented front of Dean’s pants, unbuttons the waist stay of his slacks with such ease that Dean gasps out in surprise. Sam’s hand is there, hot on his dick, bleeding through the expensive fabric of those boxers Sammy likes so much.

“He’s slept with her, and three others, plus Lilith.” Sam pushes his dick gently out of the way and runs his fingers just behind his balls, taps them gently in passing. Dean arches up and he can feel the chill of Sam’s smile against his neck.

“That’s my boy.” He says it, so filthy-sure, that Dean bites back a groan at the propriety of it. Been the kid’s since before Sam knew his name enough to say.

The movement upward sends Sam’s thick thumb directly into his ass, and Dean would be pissed at the amount of slick he’s leaking, if he wasn’t so focused on Sam’s words, and the slow glide of his thumb inside his hole.

Sam pumps the digit languidly, bastard, no hurry in his motion.

“She’s the one you want, though, Dean.” Sam says, confidentially, and he brushes over that white-burn place inside, and Dean keens, forced right up out his throat like sin.

“Don’t you wanna know why?” Sam’s voice is thick with humor, and he kisses the crown of Dean’s head in punctuation. “Ask me why, Dean.”

Dean’s wriggling on that finger, too damn deep to be of any real relief, and stutters out his response.

“W-why, Sammy?” Sam’s all smiles again, Dean can hear it in his voice, and there’s a shudder of heat in his chest that’s got nothing to do with the way Sam’s playing with him right now.

“Cause she’s _jealous.”_ Sam says. “Comes out on the eve of the Sabbath to dance because Lilith suffered.” Sam shoves two fingers up, alongside his thumb, and forces Dean’s body up and over, so that his torso is balanced on sheets of parchment, fountain pens near his ear.

His brother drags his pants down, boxers included, just over the curve of his ass, and he knows what he must look like, spread for Sam’s eyes, buffet-style.

Sam’s dragging them in and out, now, and Dean can hear the hitch in his breath with the motion, dirty-wet squelch of his slick overflowing onto his brother’s capable palms.

“We’re gonna take her then, baby. Me’n you.” Sam’s fingers shove him further up on the desk, and Dean hears the pens clatter against the floor.

Dean gasps, and gathers himself, rocks back against the slow fuck. Sam hums in appreciation of the movement, twists his wrist to get a little deeper.

“Took you that long--” he stutters, because Sam’s pressing in another finger with Dean’s inflammatory words.

“To figure that one out?” Dean levers his upper body in ascension, so he’s halfway into a push-up and slams home, four of Sam’s fingers lodged tight. He groans at the fill, and Sam’s growling filth.

His voice is less precise when he speaks again, blanket of surety stripped away.

“Had to figure out how to catch her, fucking asshole,” Sam grits out, and Dean’s chest clenches in pleasure, because that’s his Sammy, too.

Too brilliant not to shine, in all corners, into every crevice of the dark. When Dean laughs, it’s the Last Rites of the dying.

Sam’s standing now, leaning over his body, faux-blanket from the light.

He leans forward, bracing his weight with one palm stretched flat on the desk, just above where Dean’s face is smashed into a stack of paper, slack-jawed, face damp.

“Dean,” Sam says worriedly, fingers stilling from their onslaught against his prostate, and he’s turning his wrist so as to make it easier for him to pull out.

Dean reaches back so quickly he knocks a precariously perched book off of the desk, thump of a broken spine.

He wraps his fingers around the meat of his brother’s wrist and stills the movement.

“You ain’t never quit once you got started, Sam.” He breathes the words out against the paper, and Sam recovers quickly, pushes back inside, and Dean bites his lip til he tastes blood.

“Told you I’d figure it out for you, Dean. That’s yours.”

Dean doesn’t even know if Sammy’s talking to him anymore, just murmuring above him. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head at the smack of his thighs against the unforgiving planes of wood.

Sam’s leaning further down, tongue snaking out to collect the salt on Dean’s cheeks.

“Fucking talk to me, Dean.” There’s a timbre of Alpha in the command, not enough to pressure Dean, but enough for him to know that Sam’s scared, means business.

“Ah--kinda hard right now, Sammy.” Sam retreats, and Dean hears the sound of him unbuttoning his own pants, can smell the sharp tang of Alpha knot as soon as it’s released, and fuck, he wants some of that.

“Try.”

Sam’s voice is too steady for someone as close to coming as he is, and Dean can smell it, how ripe his brother’s scent is, the way he’s holding back from the claim.

“I want him to know.” Dean shudders, because Sam’s pressing forward, inexorable, his pinkie the only finger missing from the fisting that Sam seems intent upon giving him. Dean rocks backwards in anticipation, listens to the gentle slap of Sam’s fist around his own cock.

“Know what,” Sam pants, and he’s shoving home with a snarl that knocks Dean’s knees loose, Alpha rumble and control.

Dean can feel the rigidity of knuckles against slick walls, warm and too fucking heavy, like a false knot. He’s groaning so loudly he can feel the reverberation against the desk.

“Yes. Fuck, I love you.” Sam’s saying, and he’s so close Dean’s shaking with the knowing.

“What it feels like--” Dean’s about to come, Sam can’t bend his fingers like that, long and sure inside of him. He’s spilling, untouched, against the edge of the desk, most of it ending up on the floor, and his body stutters its way through it, and he’s crying at the very end, uncontrolled.

“What it feels like to twist something he loves.”

Sam’s coming, splatters on the slope of Dean’s back, dripping into the crease of his ass, so much that Dean can feel it gathering on the pale of his inner thighs, hot-burn of cremation.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Sam’s knows Dean needs to be involved, and he’s on the way to accepting that.

Really.

Problem is, if they’re both in this, what about the boys?

Sam checks his tie in the mirror absently. This one is claret-colored, and he’s mildly put off by the splash of color on his body. He hasn’t worn anything other than varying shades of dark in a long time.

He glances around, sharply, when Pax walks directly into his calf and ricochets off the muscle, landing on his butt. The kid looks disoriented, uses the hem of Sam’s slacks to haul himself back up. Sam snorts in laughter, holds very still so his boy can remain steady.

“Daddy?” Pax asks, reaches up so that Sam has no other option but to scoop him into his arms. Pax nestles into the warmth of his neck and Sam’s suddenly overwhelmed.

He holds Pax with one hand and braces the remainder of his weight on the dresser before him.

How can they think they’re allowed to do this? And without repercussions? Sam shifts Pax to the center of his chest, holds him up with one palm spanning the entirety of his back. Pax’s hair is a warm auburn, and it’s getting long, tickles Sam’s cheek as he settles.

“Tired, little man?” Sam whispers, and Pax doesn’t answer, halfway to sleep already. Dec’s already down for the count, cried himself sick during a tantrum. Sam thinks he probably lets them get away with more than Dean does, and one day his brother is going to find out.

He knows the instant that Kade sidles up near him, can feel the warm thrum of the kid’s blood. He asks himself, not for the first time, what’s in the kid that he can still feel like that.

Tastes like residual sunshine and open air, except it’s tainted with rot. He can see the decay spilling about on the edges, and it confuses him, every single time. It’s unnatural, is what it is, but he’s not gonna go where he’s not wanted.

S’long as the kid is loyal to Sam and his family, he won’t push for more.

Hell has a way of making people forget.

Chafes him raw, though, and Kade glances up at him. He scrubs a hand through his blonde hair, wrings his wrist through one brittle hand.

"His Grace is waiting to speak to you, Your Majesty." Kade's head is low and Sam cups Paxton's head with his free palm.

"He with Dec?" Sam asks. Kade is quick to shake his head, makes an aborted reach for Pax. "He's in the War Room."

Sam catches himself the millisecond before he trips, because it's not as if Dean hasn't been planning a preemptive strike for months, now, but the fact that he's taken it out of the board room means he's ready to go on the offensive.

Sam leans down low enough to deposit his pup into Kade's arms.

They're turning two in three days, and Sam knows that Dean's probably planning something special, but he's too embarrassed to tell Sam about it.

Sam watches thoughtfully as Kade turns away, gentle crooning into Pax's ear.

Dean always did something wild for his birthday, even when Sam didn't want it. Most often when Sam didn't want it, honestly.

He remembers being landlocked in Arkansas, newly thirteen years old, threat of the wolf still locked up tight like a cancer in his blood. He’s not sure what city they were in, starts to fuzz together over time, but he recalls that he was headed toward the shift, remembers the raw tingle of otherness in thin bones.

He hadn’t recognized it for what it was, not then, still living with the orange-juice scent of his brother in his lungs, residue of what once was.

Sam remembers wanting root beer floats all that summer, even though it was only the beginning of May, sticky southern heat not near enough to wrangle with yet.

Dean bought him a float for each year of his life, determined that Sammy would finish every single one. Habit would be mirrored by shots later in life, dirty thrill at the bottom of each cracked glass, and how many fingers of whiskey can you knock back, Sammy?

_Gonna fall before I do._

Shiny-red lips, and Sam knows the foam collects, unfettered, but Dean’s plying him with them all at once, and isn’t that like Dean? Trusting that Sam’s supposed to finish ‘em all, cause it’s a goal, and

_you ain’t never quit once you started_

but Sam remembers the clean smell of his brother, young and rugged, the way the girls couldn’t smell what he was underneath the sugar and spice of the ice cream shop, didn’t know his brother got wet, just like ‘em, gentle slope of crooked limbs and soft skin.

Couldn’t understand that Dean would be their worst nightmare, no matter what, would rip their hearts to shreds. Salt and burn you until you could never come back to haunt him. Ruthless son of a bitch, and if Sam didn’t learn what love meant from his brother, he’d think that Dean never understood, never collected it.

Licks the rim free of vanilla as he watches Dean slide pseudo-shy smiles ‘round the restaurant.

_this is my Sammy, and it’s his thirteenth birthday. Yeah, he’s real tall, ain’t he?_

Dean gets a banana split every time, spoons it out generously, drops a dollop in Sam’s fifth float, cause a growing boy needs his potassium, ain’t that right?

Sam recalls rolling his eyes so far back in his head he gives himself a headache. Dean thinks he’s a fucking riot, lean lines and charm so slick you could slip in it and sue.

Dean would talk you out of it, though.

Sam finished all thirteen root beer floats that day, and turned to Dean and promptly threw all up all over the Doc Martens his brother had lifted from a thrift shop a few months ago.

“Cheaters never win, Dean.”

So, Sam’s pretty sure that Dean’s got something planned, even though he’ll bluster his way through the whole ordeal, and Sam won’t press him on it, cause he likes the family jewels right where they’re located, thanks.

War Room’s dead silent when Sam transports himself, suddenly too impatient to imitate the normalcy he’s keen on, and stretches into being right at the empty head of the table. Dean’s got a very polished, but heavily scrawled upon tactical map drawn up, and the Board is leaning over it, collectively.

Danny’s tie is askew around his neck, flung carelessly over his shoulder, and Dean’s done away with his altogether. It’s hanging limply out of the side pocket of his slacks, Sam can see that it’s as harsh black as the remainder of Dean’s wardrobe, and Sam can’t understand why Dean’s so determined to be left unseen.

“Ideally,” Dean’s saying, and Sam stifles a snort at that. Not well enough, apparently, because they all turn to look at him, and Sam suffers through the frenzied attempts at genuflection, waves his hand in genuine annoyance, because now isn’t the time.

Dean’s lips are quirked up in a smile, and he scratches at the tan skin lining his throat, just before his collar.

“I want the kill zones to be on the reverse slope,” Dean begins, motioning towards one half of the terrain. “Opposite of the intervisibility lines.” Dean finishes, leans forward just far enough to rest his knuckles on the edges of the wide table.

Sam keeps himself silent, because he’s in Dean’s ballpark, and his brother’s always had a natural finesse for this sort of thing that Sam can’t shake. He’s tactical, has memorized several different ways to kill a man, points of entry for various weaponry.

Dean’s organic. And Sam can’t--won’t touch that, because he’s unqualified.

Dean nudges the paper with the tip of his index finger. “Strongpoint’s right there.” Danny huffs, jerks his tie even looser with the thread of impatient fingers.

“Fucking middle of the church?” He hisses, and then glances up at Dean quickly. “Your Grace,” he adds hurriedly, and Dean hums in acknowledgment.

“Wearing boxers or thongs today, Danny?” Dean asks, and Sam pushes braces himself against the spine of the broad-backed chair, because he’s pretty sure he’s gonna cripple himself laughing if he stands much longer.

Dantalion’s fists shudder closed by his sides and Sam clears his throat in warning. There’ll be none of that, Alpha whispers in his hind-brain, so sudden and alive that Sam grips the corners of the table tightly.

“And don’t fucking worry about that. Sam’ll be in the strongpoint. No reason for you to be there.” Dean says, voice low.

Sam sits up at that and side eyes his brother. Dean’s looking at him, so intent that Sam knows Dean’s gonna explain it all in due time, just please let him get it out, this once. Sam nods in acquiescence, and Dean’s eyes glaze over, back to that place that Sam doesn’t know how to be.

Dean points at another angle, series of black arrows snaking across the page. “Dantalion, you’ll lead this advance. Aym’ll be on the opposite end of the church, leading the next.” Dean says. Danny nods, appeased for the moment, eyes hazy with visions of the slain.

Sam wonders if angels bleed red, or if they’re too pure for that.

He intends to find out.

Dean cocks his head over the table, consideringly. “M’gonna tweak a few things, then we’re in business.” Dean’s smile carves up his face, and Sam’s eyes flick up, thoughtful. “Same time tomorrow, you bastards.”

Dean’s voice is carefully fond, and Sam reflexively jerks the head chair out from underneath the confines of the desk, slight twitch of his index. He settles into it, impassive, eyes roaming over his men, the way Focalor leans over to speak with Aym, Danny’s decidedly agile stride out of the War Room.

Sam unbuttons his suit jacket and lays his arms out, expansive over armrests. “Got it all mapped out, then, don’t you?” Sam says, careful with his tone, doesn’t want to come off as inflammatory.

Dean slides into his own seat, and Sam can hear the slick sound of pants sliding over leather, watches Dean drag the tactical plans closer, twist them to the right.

“I want to do this some place where he’s off balance.” Dean begins, taps the edge of his thumb lightly against the paper. Sam grunts in acknowledgment.

“Fuck, Sammy, we’re doing this in a church.” Sam sits upright so quickly the sleeves of his jacket snag on the edge of the armrest. “I can’t just waltz in a church, Dean. And how’s that gonna give us the edge? He’s gonna feel right at home,” Sam snorts.

Dean looks uncomfortable, furrow in his brow, and he taps his fingers together idly, eyes averted. “Not if you desecrate it, first.” Dean’s voice is low, but even, and Sam still thinks the probability of him mishearing is pretty damn high.

“Dean.” Sam can count on one hand the amount of times he’s ever said his brother’s name with this amount of gravitas, and he doesn’t like that he’s adding yet another.

“You’re asking me to defile holy ground?” Sam says. Dean glances up, fixes his eyes on him fully, and Sam meets him, head on. “S’what I just said, ain’t it?” Dean says tightly, and Sam nods, more to himself than to his brother.

“Remember how Lilith picked Hell House?” Sam nods his head. Dean continues, animated as he motions with his free hand, the other braced against the edges of his battle plans.

“Ground was desecrated to shit.” Dean reminds him. Sam scratches at his hair. “So you want me to desecrate this church, give us the upper hand?” Sam considers the idea. It’s a good one, it’s the reason why Lilith was able to amass so much power so quickly, and he’s got no immediate qualms about the situation.

Dean’s face narrows out, and he’s all unbroken lines. “Not like that, Sammy. I don’t want you to do some fucked up shit like that.” He’s so firm, he’s bordering on granite, and Sam’s reminded of all the authority Dean can project into his voice, and Alpha rankles within him, sedated animal.

_Salt, Sam. Just start carryin’ it everywhere, alright?_

Sam nudges his wolf to the side and he complies, not worked up enough to stage a coup.

“You’re not gonna be doing it, Dean, so it’s up to me, isn’t it?” Dean’s face twitches, and he looks sixteen again, pretty-boy youth, too damned appealing for his own good. Sam heaves in his air.

“M’not doing that to you, not for this.” Dean hisses, and Sam laughs outright, because Dean’s still operating under the belief that there’s a choice, a method to his demise.

It hurts, sucker punch to the gut when he chuckles, and it’s like he can’t get enough air for his lungs to survive.

“I won’t do anything like that, Dean,” Sam says quietly, low-banked, cause he’s tired.

Dean nods, slow on the uptake, like it’s costing him something to have said that to Sam. Like maybe he feels the same twist of ruined steel in his spine. Sam wouldn’t doubt it. Dean’s always been pretty adept at making Sam’s pain his own.

“Got a church in mind?” Sam says instead, changes the subject. Dean relaxes, and it’s a small concession, but Sam hangs on to it with both hands.

Dean shrugs, stands up at the same time. “Take your pick. He’s not gonna notice much of anything anyway.” Sam follows suit and rises, nudges his chair back into the table absently.

“Why’s that?” Sam asks, and when Dean looks up at him, his smile is brilliant, makes him ache in ways he didn’t know he still could. His brother’s too bright to be the way he’s been made, and Sam’ll never forgive himself.

“Cause you and me are gonna get his bitch,” he says, slaps Sam’s arm conspiratorially and grins wider, edges of his gums visible. “I need your men to hold His men off, s’a distraction, Sammy, nothing else.” Sam’s step stutters a bit, but then he’s the one smiling, liquid dark on his face.

“So what’s this about me being the strongpoint?” Sam asks, and Dean pushes his way out of the War Room, automatically turning to the left, toward the boys. Dean’s shoulder brushes against his absently as he shifts the papers in his arms.

“Once we get her, and we come to the church, that’s where I’m gonna need you. Center of the battle field, so both lines can pivot around you.” Dean’s eyes are alight, and Sam’s once again struck by the vitality of his brother, the way he pulls with all of his might, too violent for anything less.

They’re at the makeshift nursery Sam’s called into existence for his kids, and he can hear the dulcet tones of Kade from inside, cooing and singing alternately. Dean’s face creases at the sound momentarily, and he looks up at Sam like he has a question, but then he rolls his neck to the side.

“He’s gonna be so focused on you, on killing you--” Sam can’t quite quell the growl in his throat at the idea, and Dean snorts, looks up at him. “Calm down, big boy.” Dean quips, and Sam flushes, ingrained habit. “He’s gonna be trying to kill you, very least, hurt you, and he won’t be paying attention.”

Sam grabs hold of Dean’s lapel, rubs the smooth fabric in between index and thumb. “Paying attention to what?” Sam asks, genuinely confused. Dean’s smiling again and it settles, thick into Sam’s stomach.

“We’re gonna kill her. You figured out how to do it.” Dean says.

Abruptly, Sam realizes what his brother means. What Dean wants. They’re going to capture Agrat bat Mahlat at the same time as the battle's going on, and bring her back to the church. And they’re going to murder her in front of him.

Sam releases the fabric and straightens to his full height. “I’m doing it, then, Dean.” Sam begins, firmly, grabs his brother by the shoulder before he can begin arguing, pink mouth already open. “Not because I don’t think you can, you ass,” Sam says.

“Because she’s a Greater Demon, and no matter how much you fight, she can do things we’ve only seen in nightmares.” Sam scratches at the nape of his neck, considering. “S’not cause you can’t.” Sam repeats, because he needs Dean to understand.

“It’s because I can.”

Dean’s face is impassive, but he nods, tightly, and Sam watches the way his eyes crease. Dean rolls up the remainder of his plans, tucks them underneath his left arm.

“Alright, Sammy.” He jerks his thumb towards the closed door, eyebrow raised in question. Sam squares his shoulders. “In a little bit. M’gonna go read up,” he finishes lamely, because he needs to make sure he can do this, the thing that Dean needs, because he can’t afford to be caught unawares.

He’s the last line of defense.

Dean doesn’t look at him again, pushes open the door soundlessly and Sam can hear the change in his voice, scent the sugar of his love, wide tang of cinnamon.

Sam straightens his suit as he walks away, and he’s so focused that he almost walks squarely into Ruby from where she’s stopped, dead center of the hallway. She’s braced herself, and he glances down, indifferent, at the suit she’s wearing.

It’s grey, unlike her usual attire, and her hair is so tightly wound on her head that Sam would be surprised if it wasn’t giving her a headache. Sam pulls up short, tucks his right hand in his pocket. Her spine remains stiff as she bows, and Sam admires her obvious resolve.

“Need something?” Sam asks.

She inhales sharply and Sam allows Alpha to lift his head, rest his chin on his paws. He’d like a good fight. And he and Ruby always had such a good give and take. His smile curls onto his face, and Ruby recoils from the sight.

Better to be feared, then.

When she speaks, her voice is uncharacteristically devoid of all emphasis, and she doesn’t catch his eyes.

“Did Duke Dantalion ever give you my message?” She says, words grating across her tongue. Sam feels them, like glass, and it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Not that I can think of,” Sam says cautiously, humoring her, unsure of whether or not this is a trap.

Color explodes across her cheeks and her fingers curl into themselves. “Fucking bastard.” Sam huffs out a laugh, so delighted to see her flavor that he’ll excuse the slight.

“I’m here now, so what did you need?” Sam’s feeling generous. She’s locked in this prison he’s made of her, and he can afford to be magnanimous, he thinks.

What’s a King without mercy?

Sam continues walking in the direction of the library, and after a few steps, he can hear Ruby’s heels as she jogs to catch up with him. “I wanted to meet with you,” she returns breathlessly, tugs at the bottom of her suit jacket.

Sam rounds the corner and shoves the doors wide with his mind. They bump against the outer walls with the force, and Sam grins down at her.

“And here you are.” He says, striding directly to the cluttered table in the corner of the room. Ruby’s motionless, and Sam doesn’t look up at her, sifts through the pile of scrolls on the wood.

“I want you to know why.” She says, tone even, and Sam barely stops himself from crumpling the paper in his hands.

“Time’s passed for that, don’t you think?” Sam asks neutrally. Ruby wisely refrains from answering, knows it’s not a question, no matter how he phrased it.

“I made a deal. Once, a long time ago.” Ruby continues, uninterrupted. Sam remains still, wants to see where she’s heading.

“My son was born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.” Ruby grits the words out like they’re made of bone, and she walks over to the bookcase opposite him, turns to browse the titles. Sam tightens his grip on the desk.

Ruby’s voice sounds like the shorn edge of a wound, so battered that Sam doesn’t know how he never saw it before. “He was born prematurely and I had to leave him in the hospital.” Ruby’s motionless now, in a way he’s never seen her before.

“He was _dying_. You know?” Ruby doesn’t turn, but she’s talking to him now, though Sam doesn’t think she expects a response. “You know when you hold someone you fucking love, and they’re hurting--but what can you do?”

Sam doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Crossroads demon,” she laughs, and it’s such a long ago memory that she’s faint with the words. They’re like the story of another life. “My son’s life, for mine. I was sixteen. My parents were dead.” She turns then, looks him square in the eye.

“He was my responsibility.” Sam perches on the corner of his desk, hands folded carefully over his knee.

“Jake grew up. I married his dad.” She shrugs, and it’s off, the slope of her shoulder is all wrong and it hurts her, Sam can tell. He can scent the pain, and it smells different from all other scents. Can taste it in the air, blood-rust and kosher salt, tastes the way dying might feel.

“I was good with it, really.” Ruby begins, plaintive. “She fixed him! It was like, I hadn’t even done it to him in the first place. He was _healthy._ ” Ruby slurs the word like a curse, and Sam stiffens himself against the desire to pull back.

Ruby’s head is bent, and Sam knows she won’t look up, not again.

“He was ten when I died. She was real good about collecting on time.” Ruby says faintly, and he has to strain to hear her words. “But see, what they don’t tell you, is that it doesn’t mean anything, not in the end.” Ruby’s so low that Sam stands, inches closer.

“She let him die, anyway. She let him get killed in a car accident, not even a month after she collected.” Ruby laughs and it sounds brittle in the stale air of the room, like decay. The taste of agony blossoms larger, Venus fly-trap snare.

“These things happen.” Ruby says this last with resignation, as if they’ve been repeated to her, over and over, a diet she never wanted to eat.

“I just wanted her dead.” She says, crosses close enough to Sam so that she could grab his hands, were she inclined. “I just needed her to _die._ ” Her voice cracks so hard on the last word that Sam can barely make it out.

She’s shivering, and her head is angled down and away.

Sam pauses. He isn’t sure what she expected for this to accomplish.

His teeth scrape his lips raw when he smiles, and it’s like night, even to him. Alpha’s humming in his blood, and he’s been provoked, for no good reason.

He can feel the alignment of the shift, and he considers it, blankly. Shifting and tearing this frail human body to shreds, knowing she was alive within it, and _unable to escape._

He reaches out one hand for her chin and jerks it upright, firm grip of thumb and index. He can feel where his nails dig into soft flesh, see the indentation of crescent moons.

She’s not crying, Ruby’s never been built for that, but her eyes are guileless, blank shards of sky.

He can feel the snick of his descending incisors before he speaks, summer singe of released blood.

“Then we all got what we deserved, don’t you think?”

 


	23. Chapter 23

Dean's good at arguing.

In essence, he likes to rile people up enough so that emotion takes over.

So that they slip.

People like to think he's testy. That he's rowdy, goes from 0 to 100 at the drop of a hat, cause he's Dean fucking Winchester, and he just can't help himself.

Dean chuckles at that last.

He knows how to push. Dean prefers not to argue, honestly. Would rather a peaceable solution be reached so that everyone can just _breathe_

and he thinks that might be an omega trait, or maybe he was raised that way. But that’s not to say he can’t get down and dirty with the best of them. Difference between he and Sammy, for instance, is that when Sammy argues, he’s impassioned.

He’s a bleeding heart, Dean observes, but that’s how Sam’s wired. He needs there to be a thing, he needs to be able to fix what’s broken.

Sam usually wins with that tactic. Dean's passionate when he's arguing, but that's different, and he knows it. There's an asymmetry to contending with Sam out of spite, as opposed to vying for the high ground, safe, dry place. To being in the _right_.

Dean tucks the edge of his blade down into his boots, laces them up methodically. He can hear Dec stumbling around in the adjacent room, no doubt tripping over his miniature Converses. He hates not knowing where they are and he’s currently going through a phase where he refuses to take them off.

Pax is more quiet, but Dean can hear him babbling, Kade’s hushed responses.

His brow furrows once more. He wants to speak with Kade, when he can find the time to do so appropriately, when they aren’t locked in this battle of the ages.

He braces his hip against the wall, knots his left boot twice.

He’s doesn't have to be paying attention when Sammy enters a room, but he can scent his brother, the intermingle of raw power and blood that shapes him, and he wonders how they could take that from him.

He can see the bend, the give to his brother, and he’ll never be reconciled to it. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to understand what’s become of him, and why he allowed the change.

Sam’s his own shadow.

He needs to talk with Sam, meet up with him before this evening, when they’re to capture Agrat bat Mahlat. Sam’s evasive about the entire affair, which leads Dean to believe that there are some components his brother’s neglecting to tell him about.

He crosses over to the exit, zips his jacket up just below his neck. It’s dark inside, darker than Sam usually keeps it. Dean thinks it might be a reflection of Sam’s mood, but his brother won’t comment upon it, so neither will Dean.

He hurries down the corridor, glances at the half-dead light of Hell’s atmosphere. He wonders what force illuminates the dimension, because there’s nothing in the sky. It’s barren, except for what Sam chooses to create.

Everything his brother’s made is dead, impersonal, and Dean thinks there have to be some parameters that must be met.

Dean doesn’t think anything here is really allowed to _live_.

Sam’s in the library, and Dean can scent the determination, clean and unbroken. He can smell Sam’s Alpha underneath it all, and it’s comforting, something he didn’t recognize before. He’s grown up with Sam’s wolf, and it’s just as much his own as it belongs to Sammy.

Probably because Dean was denied possession of his own wolf, barely knows how he operates, what he needs besides Sam and everything that entails.

He’s so used to living without, he doesn’t know if there’s another way. The scritch of his wolf on his consciousness barely moves him. There’s been nothing there for so long that he wouldn’t know if the nothing returned to stay.

Sam’s dressed the way Dean remembers, absence of clean lines and strength giving way to dull browns and blacks, distressed jeans.

Sam’s stomping his right foot, three times, Dean thinks, in an effort to loosen his boot. Sammy’s still not quite _home,_ regardless of his apparel, and Dean can’t pinpoint it, doesn’t want to imagine that maybe it’s not there anymore.

Maybe it never was.

Sam’s smiling at him then, open and warm, and Dean files it away under Do Not Touch. His brother’s face is a bit strained, but Dean knows that the majority of that is due to the fact that what they’re about to undertake isn’t exactly child’s play.

He knows that Sam is going to go desecrate the church alone, and he had seemed startled that Dean hadn’t argued with him about it. In all honesty, Sam doesn’t need Dean’s physical protection, not anymore. Not that Sam doesn’t need protecting from himself, but Sam’s playing a game that Dean never got the instructions for.

He can obliterate things with a stray thought, and Dean understands that he’s only human. He poses a hindrance that didn’t exist in the before.

He scratches at the stubble collecting on his chin at the thought.

So, Sammy goes alone. Whatever act of desecration his brother is going to commit is better done without Dean’s influence. He wants to ask, wants to know what, but he can’t bring himself to do so.

He doesn’t want Sammy’s face to shutter closed, blinds in a rainstorm, and he knows he’s the one who asked. He told Sam what he needed, and his brother is responsible for it.

Dean grabs his thigh reflexively, relaxes when the pain from nails in flesh grounds him.

“We still doing it at the Cathedral in Missouri?” Dean asks, for lack of a better conversation starter. Sam tilts his head inquiringly.

“Hasn’t changed since the last time you asked.” Sam pauses. “We can do it somewhere else, Dean, if you don’t like it.” He rambles ahead, fusses with the hem of his thick jacket. “Battleground not open enough for you? I know they need to be able to circle around me--” Dean snorts, because he can see his little brother so vibrantly he aches with it.

“S’fine, Sammy. M’just trying to make sure we got all our ducks in a row.” Dean crosses closer to his brother and slaps a hand down against his jacket. He allows his fingers to drag down the fabric, snagging on the chill of metal from the zipper.

“You gonna be careful.” Dean doesn’t phrase it like a question, because it isn’t one. Sam knows it too, Dean can feel it in the way his body stiffens, taut spine. “Can’t hurt me, Dean.” Sam quips, barely noticeable tease.

He says it in the way one might mention that they have brown hair, or that they’re headed out to the grocery store. Dean contains his shudder at Sam’s congenial acceptance and tilts his head up, loose neck, to look at Sam.

“Course not, Sammy.” Dean whispers, and it’s just as flat as the rest of him. Sam ducks down, sheen of hair tickling Dean’s cheek on the way. “You know I love you, right?" Dean says.

Sam grins and his forehead is pressed tightly to Dean's, gentle flutter of lashes against his cheek. "M'gonna be fine."

Sam presses his lips to Dean's, tender yet volatile in the way he battles for entry, snakes his tongue inside and licks from roof to the sharp ridge of teeth.

Dean shudders out his next breath into his brother's mouth, and his hands grab onto the lapel of Sam's jacket, wrench him that much closer.

Sam's hand comes up, gentle cradle of his face, and Dean leans into it, closes his eyes. Sam's thumb is callused from years of close shaves, well defined ridges against his skin from guns and knives.

It feels like absolution and Dean can't even open his eyes.

"Baby. C'mon, Dean, look at me." Sam breathes, pulling back from spit-slick lips, and it's too intimate for them, too rough-gravel in his voice.

Dean looks.

Sam's face is slack, and he dips the edge of his thumb into Dean's slightly parted mouth, and Dean snakes his tongue out for a taste.

Tastes like ocean and ash, and Dean wants it, regardless of what it reminds him of.

"You with me?" Sam says, and Dean can hear the importance in it, the way Sam's bones are brittle and knocking together, hell-bent.

"Never been anywhere else."

Sam releases him and steps back, straightening his shoulders, hair tucked behind one ear. He's completely immaculate, even without his new-normal apparel, and Dean's astounded to see the change in him.

He realizes that there is commotion, he can hear it on the opposite of the door, and he stiffens himself, leans casually on the edge of a nearby chair, because they're coming.

They’re his men, because they're an extension of Sam’s will, and he knows that. He can scent the cloves and maggots, and he’s repelled internally, but it’s more degenerative, now. Slow erosion of a change that was always supposed to occur.

Aym is first, which seems decidedly mature of Dantalion, Dean thinks, mildly. Aym is dressed like his soldiers, black from head to toe, the only discrepancy the stripe of white lining the top of his collar. Dean glances over at Sammy when he catches sight of the detail, and Sam’s face doesn’t waver.

“It’s a rank thing.” Sam mutters, low enough for only Dean to hear, and Dean nods in acknowledgement. The entirety of the Board is here, Eligos scratching at his neck, Focalor’s eyes whip-sharp, darting around the spire of the room like crooked bats.

Dantalion leads the rear, and his back is as straight as the line to his own damnation, and Dean is a little tilted with the strangeness of it.

Sam, however, seems unmoved, but he does shift his body upright, and Dean follows the stiff line of his hand as it reaches out. The broad doors to the library slam shut with such finality that the final dregs of conversation dry up instantly.

“Dean, look away.”

Sam’s not even facing him when he says it, but Dean can tell there’s no animosity in his tone, not for Dean. Dean can hear the blanket wrath in his brother’s voice, sounds like a silencer, and Dean angles his head so all he can see is Sammy’s profile.

Dean smells rotten eggs, abruptly, and it’s so pervasive that he gags a bit in his throat, hunches over slightly. He can scent the way flies crawl around the scent, garbage disposal decay, and it makes his eyes swell with tears.

Jesus Christ.

There’s a strong gust of heat, and it swelters like desert sun, but Dean holds steady, monitors the casual way that Sam slouches, hand in his pocket.

“On your back, Danny? Really?” He says, and his voice is mildly amused, doting child.

Dean hears the familiar cadence of Aym’s laughter, sounds more like the screams of a dying breed than true enjoyment, but Dean figures that Aym can modulate his laughter when he pleases, but he’s got no such inclination right now.

“On my back, Your Majesty.” Danny’s voice sounds indulgent, but appropriately deferential, and Dean realizes that Dantalion must be showing Sam his Form. Dean clicks his tongue in irritation at not being able to see, but he knows well enough not to defy an order made for his own well-being.

A few years ago he would have been pissed the fuck off at the upper hand his little brother holds over him, but Sammy’s only as strong as Dean is, no more, no less.

Can’t forget how bound they are, cancer of the cells. Sam’s twisted round every strand of DNA Dean owns, and he’s not so much choking the life out of Dean, as he is giving of himself back, re-creating his likeness and image.

_Thou shalt have no other gods before me._

Sam’s smile lowers, until it’s extinguished, and Sam looks as old as his worries, beginning of time.

“Let’s hope you aren’t killed before he gets to see ‘em.” Sam says.

The scent abruptly dissipates and Dean turns to face the Board again, instinctively knowing that it’s safe now. Danny’s face is curled up in disgust, gaze trained on Sam’s face.

“He wishes he would get close enough.” Danny’s features curl unpleasantly, and Dean is suddenly reminded of how demonic in nature the man is, shrouded in the body of his host. Bending the flesh of a hapless man to the acidity of his reign.

Sam turns to face Dean. “Don’t let him get the chance, Danny.” Sam’s smile slithers up his face and his incisors elongate without any input from him, it seems. “That’ll mean he’s gotten close to my mate, and an Archangel of the Host’ll always be more merciful than me.”

Sam’s blithe threat does not go unheeded, and Dean feels the shift in the air after the words leave his brother’s throat. Sam’s hand comes up to his face and brushes his cheek gently, then curls into a punch, rests against overheated flesh.

“Ready?”

Dean pulls back and allows Sam’s fist to slide from his skin and land heavily back at his side. The smile he gives his brother is reminiscent of one he’s seen his brother wear when his wolf is barely contained, when he can see the edge of the shift in his brother’s eyes.

He recalls the golden flush, the way his brother is suspended, rumble of energy coalescing around him. Dean barely has time to register that his brother has been thrumming with the same energy all his life. He slaps his hand on Sam’s shoulder and locks eyes with him.

“Let’s go.”

Dean feels the loss of light like sharp blindness, but this time he’s prepared for it, and he embraces the way his body wraps around itself, twice, too tight to allow for range of motion, and he breathes through it.

It’s over almost as soon as it began, and he feels the crisp brush of wind just before his eyes regain their muted sight. Sam’s already upright when Dean manages to shake the last webs of teleportation off, re-align himself within his own skin again.  

His brother adjusts his jacket, looks close enough to the Sammy of before that Dean has to look around to make sure the Impala isn’t nearby, that they aren’t hunting a Banshee. He doesn’t look at his brother again, faces the cathedral instead, and he smiles against his will.

It’s enormous.

The Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis is everything that Dean’s looking for, and none of what he would’ve planned to destroy.

It was consecrated back in 1926, and Dean can feel the hum of holiness sweeping through the edifice, and his men remain a safe distance away. None of them look upon the building, and Dean can hear the hiss of consecration against their skin.

Kind of power makes Dean giddy. The way they can’t touch this. Sam looks uncomfortable, he notes, but not in pain. The way one would look if they were in a place that they would much rather not be. Sam smiles at him, but it doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes, falls short immediately.

“Sammy,” Dean begins quietly, low enough for only his brother to hear. Sam scratches at the side of his nose with the edge of his thumb, bows his head so Dean can listen. “Doesn’t hurt, Dean.” He pauses. “Feels like you’d feel if you couldn’t get it up, no matter how hard you tried.” Sam’s lips thin out.

“Feels like impotence.” Sam heaves in his air and shields his eyes, turns to face his men.

The Board makes up the front line, Danny closest to Sam, and even he’s edged away from the church, thrum of anger in his throat at the way the sanctified ground eats away at his skin. Behind them, they stand a few thousand deep. They’re littered across the ground, far as his eye can see, eyes shuttered to onyx. He can’t see clarity in one set of pupils, and he resists the urge to ask Sam.

They’re surrounding the Cathedral entirely, and Dean’s thankful it’s so early in the morning, or else this many people attired completely in black, relatively motionless, would have every hunter in the area running with a vat of holy water, entire Bible transcribed in Latin.

Sam gestures forward, broad sweep of his arm.

“Scope it out. We’ll be outside.” Sam says, face barely pinched. Dean wants to ask if it’s too much, if Sam just wants to disappear and come back when Dean calls. Sam raises one eyebrow like he can sense what Dean’s thinking, and he thinks it’s dumb as fuck.

Instead, Dean shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over his shoulder. “Don’t think this is overkill, Sammy?” Sam snorts and snags the jacket from Dean’s body. He bunches the fabric up, held in one fist and narrows his eyes at the eerily silent expanse of bodies.

“They’re mine.” Sam clicks his teeth thoughtfully. “Know how many souls I harvest?” He waves his free hand negligently, doesn’t bother to look again. “This isn’t even close to how many I’ve got, Dean.” Dean cracks his knuckles in irritation.

“Just body bags, then, Sammy?” He doesn’t mean for his words to slice when they come out, but they hit like daggers, but Sammy doesn’t bleed anymore, does he?

“He’d cheat,” Sam says, ignoring the slight. “He’d come sooner if he thought he’d catch us unprepared.” Sam hollows his cheeks as he sucks in his air. His stance is casual, welcoming, even, and Sam hasn’t yet released his jacket.

“Once you look around, it’s my turn.” Sam looks very far away then, and Dean’s so sure he can’t find the path to follow, that he doesn’t even manage to search for it.

Dean crosses around to the entrance, glances at the two Gothic spires that comprise the front of the building. The one on the left is a bit higher, and Dean squints as he glances up, takes in the age-worn stone, off-beige with a hint of decaying green embedded in the coloring.

The roof is a pointed, sloping green, discolored in certain spaces. It’s almost silent inside, and he knows there’s not a Mass going on, it’s too quiet for anything of the sort.

He crosses himself out of long-forgotten habit, and the ritual leaves him crawling with filth. How can he bless himself in a place he’s planning on cursing?

The walls are covered in mosaics, and Dean pauses in appreciation. This is more Sammy’s scene, but he’s not completely uncultured, he recognizes that this place is immaculate, and rich in historical significance.

He can see the intermingling of countless glass tesserae above his head, and he stutters to a stop, floored by what he’s witnessing. He can see the narthex on the ceiling above his head, constructed with a backdrop of metallic gold and black.

The verse surrounding the narthex is from 2 Timothy, and he’s pleased and perturbed that he remembers the exact book. He mutters the verse to himself and suddenly he’s laughing, doubled over, and he’s so past air he doesn’t rightly recall what it is.

He’s plaintive, crown jewels hidden on his person on the way to an execution, but he straightens despite the fact.

He whirls around, sees that the narthex is located at the west end of the nave, opposite the main altar of the church.

Strongpoint, then.

Sammy’ll see some sort of poetic justice in standing here, canopy of that verse huddled over his head, blessing the endeavor he’s taken upon himself to fulfill.

Dean can see the corridors lining the hall, one on either side of the main lobby, and it’s just the way he planned, men on each side, led by Dantalion and Aym, respectively. They’ll hold the strongpoint until he and Sam return, this evening, to deliver Agrat right into the hands of her former lover.

Dean thinks he’ll enjoy breaking every bone in her body, and that’s in addition to whatever Sam has planned for her, regardless.

Dean turns smartly, heel of his boot gliding smoothly on the polished marble of the basilica, and he wonders if his shoes are meant to withstand the blood his brother plans on spilling here this evening.

Things are still as he left them when he went inside, except the sight of his army is less unnerving, and he scans them, impassive. Sam remains at the helm, and he’s facing the sky, contemplative. His neck snaps back down when he scents Dean, and Dean can smell the relief, breath of whipped cream.

Danny steps up as Dean approaches, and Dean knows Sam’s about to leave.

Dantalion’s escorting him back to Hell, along with the rest of the demons, until Sam comes back to teleport him to Agrat.

Dean knows the drill, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. Aym’s gaze follows Danny’s form, but no one else makes an attempt at motion, and Sam cocks his head.

“You need anything else? Need me to do anything?” Sam’s voice is devoid of anything but concern, and Dean’s quick to shake his head.

“It’ll do.” Dean pauses. “Strongpoint’s under the narthex. In the entryway.” Sam nods, and Dean knows he’s filing it away, won’t forget, can’t afford to do so.

Sam’s about to gesture for Dantalion, because he needs the space and solitude in order to desecrate the Cathedral, and Dean intrinsically knows this is something that Sam won’t permit him to see. Dean’s hands itch to hang onto his brother’s sleeve, attach himself like amputation, but he knows he’d be rebuffed.

Sam will do this alone.

Dean raises his hand to Danny, even as the Duke reaches for his shoulder, the connection needed to transition from one plane to the next. He feels the demon give pause, and Dean addresses his brother, hint of amusement in his voice.

It’s less entertained than he’d like, because it’s a dirty-scrawl from his throat, almost illegible, but he wants Sam to understand. See what this is through Dean’s eyes, because everything else is too stained to be of use, fabrication of church-windows.

There’s no sun, only the dilution of what was once light.

“Verse is from second Timothy.” Sam hums, brow slightly wrinkled. “On the narthex,” Dean continues, undeterred.

“Ah.” Sam says, widens his legs, bracing his stance. “What’s it say?” Sam asks, genuinely curious.

Dean snorts, wraps his own fingers around the thick swell of Dantalion’s wrist, can feel the corded length of muscle underneath his palm. Dean meets his brother’s eyes, leans his head in Sam’s direction.

“I have fought the good fight. I have kept the faith.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual ceiling of the narthex, Cathedral Basilica, Saint Louis. 
> 
>  


	24. Chapter 24

Sam’s body slumps forward as soon as he feels the snap of air that comes with teleportation. He turns slowly, beyond being impressed by the immaculate lawn his men have left behind.

It’s like they were never there, and Sam’s alone on the green stretch, cars parallel parked on either side, Cathedral looming ahead, more menacing when it’s only him to face.

“You think you’ll keep me out,” Sam muses aloud, focuses on the expanse of road before him. It’s early in the morning, commutes don’t generally begin to get hectic until around eight-ish, and Sam scratches the back of his neck.

He blinks in the direction of the asphalt, and he can smell the rubber when he thinks the car into being. It’s flashier than he would like, but it’s black, for one, and he can appreciate that. For what he needs, this will be good enough to make him stand out.

He reminds himself of his resolution to only think far enough ahead to the next step.

It’s easier that way. Not for him, it doesn’t matter, one way or the other, but it will be for Dean.

When Sam adjusts his jacket, plucks at the holes in his jeans, he thinks that he could grow to like fast cars. A Ferrari Enzo, he thinks, remembers seeing it in a magazine somewhere. He knows Dean probably could have come up with something more original, but he’s pretty sure this’ll get the job done.

He’s still driving when he sees her, coasting, really, his hair billowed about his head from the open window, leather seats digging into his back with uncomfortable softness.  The wheel is more steel grey than black, and Sam eyes the Ferrari decal, smacked dead-center of the wheel, bright yellow and disarming.

Sam’s passing the coffee shop, not a Starbucks, he muses, but some homegrown thing. The Mud House. She’s blonde, sitting right next to the open window, head tucked down, reading a book. Sam can’t understand why he knows she’s good for it, but he does, and he hasn’t found his instincts lacking since they carved his soul into black.

He parallel parks just outside of the shop, quietly, but if he’s right (he is) she won’t even notice.

Now comes the tricky part. Sam’s never attempted this before, but if he’s got control of the outside world, can will things into being by a thought, he should have even more of a handle on himself, on what he becomes. He glances down at his hands, resting on his lap, sees where they are ravaged by time, assortment of old injuries.

Flexes them, hears the familiar weight and crack.

He wants that gone.

He glances at her again. She’s what, eighteen, or so? He can deal with that. Twenty-two, then.

His body aches, all over, one cool spot in the center of his chest, and he knows it’s done. He reaches up on instinct, to push his hair away from his face, finds he cannot. Of course. His hair wasn’t as long when he was twenty-two. He stretches his right leg, hums at the satisfying snap of bone.

He glances into the rearview mirror in curiosity, and he’s alone, suddenly, unanticipated twist in his gut for the boy in front of him. This Sammy is young, vibrant, eaten up. He remembers being this boy, big, Alpha tall, a little lighter than he would grow to be.

Burning til he was charred with the wanting, fucking Jess under thick blankets, loving the way her hair curled around his fingers in the morning, body slumped in exhaustion.

Could burn chicken by touching it, but everything she baked was a masterpiece. Had to stop eating so much of it, or run more, and he already did enough of that.

This boy had also leaned, hunched over in his shower, one hand braced against the tile, fisting his dick, so bent-bruised around his brother that he couldn’t breathe through it, to begin with. Sees Dean’s eyes every time he comes, and that’s oftener than he’d like.

Doesn’t matter if he’s balls deep in Jess, bent over double, it’s Dean he thinks of, Dean he wants.

_got what you wanted, didn’t you?_

Sam knows he’s not as intimidating like this. When he smiles, this young and green, women think he’s a sweet Alpha, brand new and unmated.

It’ll be hard to hide his mated scent for long in this body, so Sam’ll need to work quickly. He slams the car door closed a touch louder than necessary, crosses the street without looking both ways.

It’s just as quiet indoors as Sam would expect, beige colored walls and soft lighting from faux lanterns. There are a total of four, and he makes five, patrons inside right now, hunched over laptops and books. One man is closely guarding two cups of coffee, double fisting them intermittently.

Sam can tell she’d looked up at the noise, too close to the window not to have heard. He hears his voice, lighter, less rough with the years, ask for an Americano. He taps his fingers idly on the whorls in the wood, glances at the menu, handwritten in varying chalks.

There’s a sitting area in the corner, four inviting armchairs, all in blues and greens. A bookcase encircles the enclave, and that makes him grin. He’s got to pass her to get to it, and he thinks that the tide is finally turning in his favor. She’s looked back down by the time he’s gotten his drink, but if he scents, he can smell the cloy of swifty hidden pheromones.

They’re easy to control, once you get the hang of it, but Sam doesn’t think she’s had much practice, which is exactly what he wants.

He strides past her, peruses the titles while he allows the virile scent of Alpha to waft in her direction. He hums, just under his breath, Welcome Home, if you could believe it.

He grabs The Monk, wonders exactly what Lewis considered when he wrote the damned thing, pious monk consumed with inherent evil, and then he turns back around. She’s reading Anna Karenina, and Sam hums to himself, thoughtfully.

He thinks he can be excused for the shudder he sends through the frame of her chair, knocking the legs off-balance. She tilts precariously to the side, slight squeak at the suddenness. Her book flops back down to the table, and Sam’s there unnaturally quick, one hand on her shoulder as he shoves the chair back into position.

He sets his book down carefully, across from her, and looks down, mouth widening in a smile. He can feel his own dimples and, from the way her face floods with color, she can too.

Sam remembers being in high school, the year of Becca, remembers turning this part of himself off and away, because it wasn’t who he wanted to be, vital itch of Dean, or not. He slides into the seat across from her without preamble now, because he knows exactly who he is, and what he’s after.

“You okay?” He asks, voice low with concern. Her hands flutter against the cover of her book and she’s looking everywhere but at Sam.

“Yeah. I am. I don’t--I don’t know what happened.” Her voice is soft, settles inside wrong. Her hair spills over her cheek but she makes no move to push it back, hiding. Sam leans back in his chair, gives her some more room to breathe.

“Sorry if I scared you,” Sam begins. “My name’s Sam.” He waits patiently for her response, and she doesn’t disappoint. “I’m Avery.” She smiles, just a little, gestures toward his book. “I’ve never read that. I’ve seen it before, though.”

Sam’s face curls up in surprise again, and he taps at the cover thoughtfully. “S’good. Kinda dark, if you’re into that kinda thing.” Sam allows his hand to settle on his thigh, knocks powerful legs open. Alpha glances up, can smell the fertility of an Omega.

He doesn’t do much more than growl, though, would come to life with a vengeance if he thought that Sam had less than pure thoughts for this woman. Sam’s not inclined to do any of that.

She laughs, a little more forceful than before, and shrugs. “I mean. Does Anna Karenina count?” She picks up her book and frantically attempts to find her page. Sam laughs himself. “I don’t know, man. The only really shitty part doesn’t happen til like, the end of the book.” She snorts, and Sam is surprised, again.

“Her whole life is pretty fucked up before then, though.” Avery says, considering. Sam shrugs. “Only because she made it that way. She had a good thing. Her husband was a good dude.” Sam hasn’t read this book in a long time, not his speed, but he generally remembers that Anna fucked herself over, royally.

“She just wanted to feel, you know?” Avery pauses. “I don’t think that she just wanted to settle. I don’t think people like that can really just, stop wanting.” She says.

Sam grunts. “You an English major?” He asks. Avery grins widely, dog-ears her place in the book. “Minor. I’m visiting home from Northwestern.” Sam’s eyes roll back in his head as he calculates. “You drive or fly? It’s like a five hour drive.”

Not very long, damn short, by Sam’s experience, but he knows that regular people consider that an eternity. Makes his body shudder in laughter. What do they know about forever?

“Oh, flew.” Avery says, incredulously, and Sam nods in understanding. “I mean,” she continues brightly, “I’ve driven before, but my dad paid, so why not.” Sam nods with feigned understanding, because of course, he, All-American Sammy, would be able to sympathize.

“What about you,” she prods, and Sam realizes he’s fallen short on his end. “M’visiting a friend. And I’m writing a paper, and I thought, might as well kill two birds with one stone, y’know?” He says.

She looks confused at that, and says as much. “My paper’s on the history of Catholicism, specifically, what makes it so much more entrenched in ideology than other sects of Christianity.” Sam shrugs one shoulder and cracks his knuckles.

Her eyes slide down to the warmth of his palms and she glances back up, almost immediately. “How’s being here gonna help you with that?” Avery asks.

“I think a lot of it has to do with their churches. Cathedrals might as well be fucking museums, y’know? Like Baptist, or Methodist churches aren’t as old and wealthy or anything.” Sam says. “Catholic churches are big, expensive and historical.”

Avery tucks her leg underneath her body, blows on probably-cool coffee. “Oh! You’re here for the Basilica.” Sam nods, pleased. “I was gonna meet him over there, my friend, after he got off work, but I figured, hey, I’ll get this out of the way first, so we can just hang out later.”

Avery smiles. “You’re not there right now, though.” She points out. “Well,” Sam begins, leaning closer conspiratorially. “I got lost. M’not from around here. And I was driving, trying to ask directions. So I stopped here.”

Avery’s flushed, and Alpha hums in satisfaction at her interest. He’s such a vain bastard, preens under all the attention. He wonders if Alpha is 22 again, too.

Sam continues, sees his in. “Then I saw you.” He sits back, allows that to hang heavy in the air. She’s bleeding color, now and Sam thinks it’s endearing. He thinks, in another life, his better life, they might have been friends.

“You saw me?” She says, voice high-pitched. Sam nods, self-assured. “And I thought, I wanna talk to her.” Sam shrugs, like it’s an everyday occurrence. “I wasn’t disappointed.” She tucks her hair behind her ear completely and grins.

“You only planned to talk to me?” Avery says, boldly, tucks her book underneath her arm. Sam stands, and he watches her wolf bade her to submit, because he’s imposing, even in this body, always has been. “I was hoping you could show me where the Cathedral was.” He says.

His voice is salty-sweet, and he can scent the violet blush of confusion from her. He holds out his hand and takes hers, wraps it completely in his palm and she can’t even see the edge of her fingertips. He reaches his free hand down, tucks the flyaway strands of hair behind her ear.

“You coming?” Sam asks.

It’s here that Dean would tell him he really isn’t being fair.

“When you get an A on this paper,” Avery starts, standing, her hand still in his, “you owe me half the credit.” Sam laughs, right on up from the pit of his stomach and nods, striding toward the exit. “I’ll owe you, that’s for damn sure.”

-

Dean wraps his arms around his boys, first thing, when he gets back.

Danny claps him on the shoulder once, leaves him be, and Pax bobs up and down on his lap, smacks his blocks together in uncharacteristic aggression.

Dec is walking around the entirety of the room, having pulled himself up from his crawl, and he’s prodding at the corners of the wall, emergency exit.

Kade is hunched in on himself, opposite corner of Dean, regardless of how Dean trusts him with the twins, it doesn’t mean they have a particularly promising relationship. Dean slants his gaze over at the boy.

Now’s as good a time as any.

“Kade,” he begins, and the kid turns in his direction, hair slightly smashed on one side.

“Why are you like this?” Dean cringes at himself, wonders where the fuck Sammy got such tact from, when he can barely manage to keep his thoughts hovering in his mouth.

Kade’s legs shove against the ground as he pushes away in alarm. “Like what, Your Grace,” the kid stammers. Dean rolls his eyes. “Can that shit, kid. Why don’t you smell like fucking death, like the rest of ‘em?”

Pax squirms out of his grip, toddles in the direction of Dec.

Kade avoids his eyes, and Dean’s suddenly angry. “You comin’ for Sammy? Cause I gotta tell you, kid. Hell ain’t got nothin’ on me.” Kade’s shaking his head and then he lowers his voice, away from the twins.

“Carter had cancer.” He begins, and his voice is matter of fact, like he’s rehearsed this story before telling it. Dean thinks about it. Kid probably has. Knew he couldn’t last long, smelling the way he did, acting the way he does.

“I made a deal. He was fine, deal came through.” Dean bites at his lip. He knows all about these. They all seem to get caught up in them, and it never works out. Not once do these seem to make anyone happy, in the end.

His whole life is a saga of that, one open-ended chapter after the other.

Dean wants to shake the boy. Why don’t they just stop? Why can’t they just end it? Why does the want have to outweigh the conclusion? Dean scrubs a hand over his face. What’s wrong with letting go?

“When I came back,” Kade says. “Topside, once they pulled me off the rack, down here, they told me they had the perfect host for me.” Kade’s mouth quirks up on the side.

“He’s my brother. My twin, actually. Fits like a glove, right?” Kade’s voice is twisted, dirty-dark, and Dean’s chair scrapes the floor as he backs away, because that’s not even something he ever contemplated.

“You mean, they put you--they put you in his fucking body? They got you riding your own brother?” Kade uncurls his legs from his body, stretches them out.

“S’like looking in a mirror. Except, I know it’s Carter. I can feel him.” Kade says. Dean wants to grab up his own kids, wonders what kind of monstrosity would stuff the essence of the damned inside flesh and blood, and what’s the point of all the suffering? Where’s it leading?

“See, the worst part,” Kade says, musingly, like he’s considered every angle of this and Dean’s just around to hear the end, to see the finale. “Is that he’s my brother, right? So I know him. Carter let me in.” Kade grabs at his own head, tugs Carter’s roots.

“He won’t let me die. He won’t let me die. He won’t let me die.”

Dean understands.

Kid smells like humanity cause there’s too much sacrifice in him. It’s gonna bleed out, in the end, always does. Maybe slower than usual, but Carter’s gonna burn, and then Kade’s gonna be just like the rest. Maybe worse, because you don’t escape that kind of monster unscathed.

Kade’s quieter now, still humming the words under his breath, monotone of acceptance.

“He won’t let me die.”

-

Sam doesn’t even need the car, in the end, cause Avery’s not particularly intrigued past the generic squeal of excitement about how nice it is.

She’s generally more interested in watching as Sam’s hands switch gears, and Sam plays it up a little, flexes his hand more than he ever thought possible.

She gives him concise directions, sets Anna Karenina down on his floorboards. He pulls in, directly at the entrance and there isn’t any more traffic here than there was earlier, but that’s because he’s fairly sure that Mass begins later on weekdays.

Dean remembers rosaries, Hail Marying his way through his formative years, but Sam knows there was never any God but John Winchester, and his retinue of personal demons.

They cross the street and Sam allows Avery to lead the way up the stairs, chattering the entire journey. It’s just the way Dean described, and Sam feels the sanctification, makes his skin crawl. He glances up, his eyes trailing across the mosaics, the slope of aged architecture. Avery tucks her hand into his own.

“What do you want to see first?” She asks, like she’s been to the Cathedral often, had her First Communion here, pretty picture in snow, clean and new for the Lord.

He’s tired.

“The narthex.” He says, because it’s true. That’s all he wants to see right now.

She smiles. “Alright, that’s near the nave.” She’s talking, probably more than she ever has before, and Sam searches for the grounding feeling of guilt, but he can’t find it. Resignation tastes the same, though, and he’s not sorry, not really.

He wants to go home, to Dean and the boys, and this is the fastest way to that.

She motions up, like Dean hasn’t already told him what it is he will find. He’s fought a good fight, that’s true enough. That’s all he’s been created for, the fight to live, fight to preserve, existence.

She’s looking up, slim column of throat, blue of her sweater curled around soft shoulders. The tesserae shimmers above them, black lines of script surrounding the articulation of the Christ.

He can hear her heart, picks out the slightly frenetic pace of it, the hum of anticipation. She’s still talking when he turns her gently to face him, and her head settles, click of her pulse in her throat.

“Sam?” She says, inquisitively, and he can smell how unsoiled she is, unmated, unpenetrated, the virgin he was looking for. The one he needs.

He kisses her.

Alpha’s rising, slowly, knows there’s nothing of passion in it, but it rubs him raw nonetheless. He presses his hand to her heart, just under the breastbone and a little to the left, he can feel it.

She’s still flooding his nostrils with pheromones, slick beginning to collect on pale upper thighs when he shoves forward, unnatural strength of his hand and arm cutting through flesh and bone like paper.

Her breath stutters, familiar squeak of surprise.

His other arm curves back, around her shoulders, to support the sudden deadweight of her body. Sam looks up at the narthex, impassively. It’s a good thing the blood is spilt here.

Her head lolls back against the makeshift shelf of his arm, and he can hear her gurgling as her lungs expire, fill up with blood.

“Why,” she starts, chokes, and her breath sounds wet in her chest, like waves against sand, thick and cumbersome.

“Why, why, why,” she repeats, only enough air left for that, and Sam thinks it’s a waste of a last word. She seems like the kind of girl that would have more left to say. Sam’s hand presses further within, until he can feel his fingertips brush against it, the drag of the aorta, distended pump as it continues to beat around his palm.

His fingers are sticky-wet, viscous, and her limp body spasms in his arms. He shoves an inch or so further in, hears, rather than feels the debilitating crunch of more bones in her chest. He pushes until it’s cradled in his hand, the fluctuation of muscle as it flutters.

He looks down on her in some confusion at her Last Rites, _why why why_

and it’s honest-to-God bewilderment on his part, because that’s the only stable, clear point in all of this. His own strongpoint.

He tugs, just a little, and the heart separates from the wall of her body. He jerks it out swiftly then, and his hand is coated, glove of scarlet, up to his forearm. It’s almost small in the largeness of his palm, and he glances down blankly at the severed hole in her chest, rivulets of blood leaking from the wound.

How can she not know? How is any of this anything other than what it is?

Avery’s eyes are wide-open, soft frame of honeyed lashes. Her body is stiff in rigor mortis against his own, hands curled into claws.

“For him,” Sam says patiently, because there’s a chance she might not have understood.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic depictions of violence.

His brother is pressed clean when he returns, hair slicked back against his head. Dean hates when he presents himself that way, like he’s been so soiled he needs a flush of water to put him back to rights.

Dean swallows his tongue instead of asking, because Sam’ll just look at him, and ask, Do you really want to know, Dean?

And Dean doesn’t.

He thinks he’ll eventually cajole Sammy into telling him, if only so his brother doesn’t have to bear the brunt of it alone.

He asked him to do it. He never would’ve if he thought there would be another way. But Sammy was the only one who could do it, enough strength behind his desecration to make it something worthwhile.

Dean thinks he’s defiled his own brother enough.

The boys are napping, curled around one another like cats, Dec sprawled so far into Dec’s space that Dean removes his far-flung arm for danger of suffocating Pax. He tucks the blanket underneath chins, runs his hand through Paxton’s mane of lions hair.

Kid’s hair is growing faster than he is, auburn and sun-kissed, and his face dimples in sleep. Dean thinks he looks more like Sammy than Dec, even though Dec has Sam’s coloring. Dec’s hair is almost as long as his brother’s, nut brown and curling around his ears.

His chest heaves with one stuttered breath and then settles, and Dean passes one hand over soft torsos and pulls back.

It feels a little like suffocation, knowing that he’s not doing well by them, and it’s still the best he has to offer.

He loves his father, always did. He was larger than life, the first man Dean knew to care for and honor. John Winchester may have ripped him apart, but he did his best to stitch him back together. He’s a little more crooked for the attempt, but the man did the best with what he had.

Love makes people blind. Confuses what would normally be right and wrong, and suddenly everything is accessible, everything is available for consumption.

Dean loves his father, but that doesn’t mean he meant to become him.

Sam comes for him, clean scent, and Dean doesn’t let himself wonder anymore. His brother smiles at him, and it’s worn around the edges, and Dean has a moment of clarity, wants to cry out for everything they’ve lost, what they’re in the process of ruining.

Sam’s not facing him now, though, he’s leaning over the edge of the twins’ crib, strong hands braced against dark wood. His hair hangs forward, obscuring his profile, and Dean remains away.

Sam’s fingers stretch out, run over Dec’s face first, and then Paxton’s. He makes a strange sound in his throat, and Dean takes an aborted step forward.

“Wait.” Sam says.

Sam straightens, his body and then his suit jacket, and when he’s facing Dean he’s put himself back together.

“Just needed a reminder.” Sam offers by way of explanation, and Dean falls into step with his brother, tucks a hand in his pocket.

“About what?” Dean asks.

“Why this is the only way.” Sam’s not looking at him, his eyes are farther away than his voice, and Dean knows this means that he’s immersed in the network, moving chess pieces.

“Why is it,” Sam says, “that no one ever wants to keep the finished product?” Dean’s well-versed in Sam’s language, has been sifting through it since the kid started speaking in half-truths, pondering some of his thoughts and saying the other half out loud, in the hopes that Dean would just get it.

Luckily for him, Dean’s always understood, and he nods now, shrugs casually.

“Sometimes it’s not what they meant to make, Sammy.”

Sam grunts his acknowledgment, a thoughtful sound, and the door locks behind them.

-

Dean’s never been worried when it’s only him and Sam together, but he’s stressed now, because he doesn’t know how his army works as a team, works with him.

It’s a valid concern, they’ve not been field tested with him, although they’ve been waging war against Heaven for longer than Dean’s existence, and then some.

This is enough to settle him, even though he knows that this will be the turning point, one way or the other.

Dean would like to see him dead, burnt free of his life, Angel wings bent over backwards, tucked into the earth.

He’s old enough to admit that some of that is bloodthirst, and he’s always been more comfortable with that aspect of himself than Sam ever was. Sometimes he wants the rush of the kill, the expulsion of life and scarlet, and now, it’s compounded.

He needs Samael dead, and there’s no way around that.

He’s gonna like it, too.

That’s the difference between he and Sammy. Sam’s this way because of Dean, because Dean forced him into this, twisted him into this being that’s less of himself. His brother, wrapped up tight in Sam-light tinged with Black.

It makes Dean ache with it, the antithesis of what he’s supposed to be doing. Protect Sam. Watch out for Sammy. Love him.

Love him.

Love him.

Is this what it is, anymore? Does he love his brother? What kind of love is this worth?

Sam thinks it’s all on him. He can see it in his brother’s eyes, the way Sam holds himself, resigned and competent. He thinks he’s brought this upon them. Sam’s got no choice. Dean was the elder. The ball was always in his court.

Nevermind how weak he was. He’ll never be so again.

Sam’s so silent when he returns to Dean’s side, that Dean is caught off guard, snaps the book he was perusing closed.

Sam’s attire is completely black today, not the charcoal he seems to prefer. His hair is tucked behind his ears, carefully arranged away from his face.

Dean’s face remains blank, more for Sam’s benefit than his own. Dean’s dressed similarly, black t-shirt and pants, no concern for color or lack thereof.

“We’re gonna call her home,” Sam smiles, and it looks closer to a snarl than anything Dean’s seen before. Dean doesn’t comment on the ambiguity of the statement, just blinks up into Sam’s lackluster expression.

“Where?”

Dean’s paying penance for demanding that Sam defile the church, blanket the Cross in his own hellfire, and he curbs his need to know _everything,_ for that reason. An eye for an eye, as it were.

Sam takes his hand, and Dean squirms with the intimacy, out of sorts with what they’re about to do here.

Sam’s fingers tighten around Dean’s when he feels him flinch, and he blinks.

“Here.”

And then they’re gone, shroud-tight essence of darkness with the teleportation, and Dean comes back to himself quicker than ever before, wills his sight to return, and he blinks the black flecks of blindness away with derision.

‘Here’ is the center of an open-field, scent of farmland, if Dean’s sense of smell is anything to go by. Dean tilts his head up, can count every star in the sky and then some, looks like several pressing leaks in the hull of a great ship.

The air is brisk without being chilled, but Dean flips his collar up anyway, regards Sam calmly.

“What do we need?” Dean says, wary of stretching his voice in the absolute silence of the night.

“Pentagram.” Sam states, and Dean looks around, pats his pockets for anything he can use to begin carving the shape into the earth. He glances at Sam appraisingly.

“You bring anything, hotshot?” Dean presses, can’t resist. Sam barely registers the quip, and Dean watches as his brother’s eyes shutter from golden and back, quick shaft of light. He knows without looking that his brother has engraved the lines into the dirt with his mind.

All he can think is that Sam’s just made this ninety percent more expedient.

“What’d you bring me for, then,” Dean says, and Sam’s spine stiffens, his body bowing forward. Dean wants to snag the words out of the air and push them back within, but he stills, allows Sam to come back to himself.

“You’re the only one I need,” Sam states, and there’s a kind of finality to the statement that Dean’s not dense enough to miss.

“What else,” Dean says, half in an effort to patch the conversation back together. Sam pulls his hands from his pockets and rests his arms by his side. “Sigil of Baphomet,” Sam says, and Dean swears he sees the twist of a smile on his brother’s face.

Dean snorts, and it’s strangely loud in the dead of night.

“Ain’t that copyrighted?” Dean says. “Church of Satan’s gonna shit their pants when they find out they’re suing the King of Hell.” Dean rolls the words around in his mouth as he says them, breathes official life into the phrase with his tongue.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice though, but his brother’s body arches backwards as he laughs, loudly and carefree. His boy’s so beautiful like that it hurts, wants it to be just them and their boys and he suddenly doesn’t give a fuck about where that is.

“I’ll hold them in contempt,” Sam says, and it’s flippant, but heavy in tandem, and Dean knows his brother holds no soft spot for Lucifer’s worshippers. Dean thinks Sam would murder them all if it suited his purposes.

Sam blinks again, and Baphomet is superimposed within the existing pentagram. Sam’s moving faster now, as if he’s remembered they’re running out of time. His men should be at the Basilica now, in formation, Danny and Aym leading, respectively.

Dean welcomes the hum of excitement at the battle, because he can work with that, familiar territory. “Next,” Dean says, unnecessarily.

“Sigil of Saturn, and the outer ring of the Sigil of Ameth.” Sam’s hurrying now, and Dean looks down for the first time.

He thinks of crop circles, at first, shocked at the width and volume of the scorched earth beneath him. There’s no separate word for what Sam’s done here. There are soft, blank tendrils of smoke wafting up from the blaze of the ground.

The grass is irreparably damaged and dead from where Sam has burnt his mark into the land. It’s large, spans at least a mile or so, and Dean thinks Sam wants to make sure he _binds_ Agrat bat Mahlat.

Sam shrugs out of his jacket and drops it onto unstained grass.

He leans down onto one knee, inspects the ground at eye level. The fingers of his left hand twitch, imperceptible to anyone but Dean, and several candles appear, one for each corner of the pentagram.

Sam stands and turns fluidly to face Dean, sweat curling Sam’s hair gently, just below his ears.

“I need the blood of an innocent.” Sam says, and Dean’s already rolling his sleeves up so Sam can have access to his wrist. “M’not exactly innocent, Sammy,” Dean says lamely, but this has to suffice. Sam would’ve already figured out another way if this wouldn’t work.

Sam leans down into his right boot and tugs his switchblade free, brow furrowing as he looks down at Dean, confused.

“You’re human, Dean.” He watches his brother scent him, and Dean knows what he smells like, his own omega scent of Florida sunshine, buffered by his brother’s mate-claim.

“There’s nothing of Hell in you.” His brother slices at his wrist, one smooth flick and the pain is a sharp bite and then no more. Dean can feel the trickle of blood leak down his hand, trail off of his pinkie and collect on the dirt beneath his boots.

“Veni ad me, meretrice magna, et potiter solvendum, coram me*.” Sam says, and his brother utters it so quickly that Dean only catches some of it, even though Sam’s repeating the words faster than Dean can makes sense of the incantation.

Dean can feel his blood sliding down his fingertips, and then suddenly his arm is up and away, cradled protectively to his chest.

Dean feels the air slice past his ears as Sam drags him away from the center of the Trap with inhuman speed, and then steps closer, Dean a few feet behind.

Dean huffs his irritation out under his breath and walks forward, until he’s by Sam’s side. His brother is stiff next to him, watching the way the earth is blazing within the Trap. Dean can see the beginnings of flames rising from nothing, contained entirely within lines carved from soil.

Dean can feel the rubber-band thin frisson of power that comes with pulling something out of nothing, dragging someone into existence.

Sam’s not looking at him, but Dean can scent the Alpha in his brother’s posture, barely needs Sam’s accompanying threat.

“Please, Dean, don’t fucking move.” Sam says, and Dean agrees, albeit silently. Sam’s wolf will focus on Dean’s well-being at the cost of himself, and Sam can’t afford that. Dean’s not stupid.

When the smoke clears, the crackle of fire is still present, even as it recedes back into the ground. In its place is woman, small of stature. Her hair is so long it brushes against her bare feet, and she looks like she was plucked right from the center of a fairytale.

Her hair is jet black, thick waves of ash, and her eyes are hazel, currently shifting towards a red-tinged obsidian.

Her dress is just as dark as the rest of her, lingering to the tops of her toes, long sleeves that cover all but the tips of her middle fingers.

She’s not wearing any jewelry.

“My King,” she says, her voice not quite mocking, but perhaps the cousin of it. Sam doesn’t seem inclined to play along, but he walks around the outer-edge of the circle, inspects her.

“I heard you wanted to see me.” Agrat says, trying again. Sam is still silent, and Dean doesn’t attempt to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Could’ve asked, you know. I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands now.” Agrat smiles, and Dean is careful not to recoil. Her tongue is forked, like that of a serpent, and it slithers from in between the rows of her teeth, slight hiss.

“That’s enough,” Sam says quietly. Dean eyes her with renewed interest. She makes Sam quiet, this one. He doesn’t know what to make of that.

Agrat twists her body to face Sam’s, all without moving her feet.

“I didn’t mean to scare him, My King.” Agrat says, challenging eyes meeting Sam’s own. Sam stops his movements, and tilts his head to the side just enough for Dean to worry greatly about whether or not his brother can hold off on murdering her until they’re in front of Samael.

“That’s too bad,” Sam says. “I like it when people mean what they do.” Sam’s eyes flicker dangerously to gold, and Dean leans closer to his brother, hardwire of coding.

Agrat’s body arches in its self-imposed confines, and her feet dig further into the earth. Her body bends backwards, unnatural to the point where the back of her head rests against the ground behind her, legs still upright as her torso breaks with strain.

She’s screaming, and this filters into Dean’s awareness in a haze, sudden speakers in his brain.

“You thought it’d be easier, Little King?” Agrat screams, and her voice trembles throughout the soundlessness, the ground beneath her rocking.

Sam’s eyes still flutter and his brow furrows. Dean’s close enough to touch Sam now, and he slaps a hand down onto his brother’s shoulder. Sam turns his head in Dean’s direction, but Dean knows Sam can’t see him, can’t breathe past the shutter of color in his eyes.

Sam’s still looking at Dean when he speaks, but it’s directed to Agrat. “You’re keeping your host alive.”

There’s a sharp snap in dark, and Agrat’s body crumples from its half standing, half bent contortion. The Greater Demoness falls flat onto her newly crippled back, and this scream is bloodcurdling, loudest of all.

She thrashes on the ground then, and then rises until she’s levitating, feet barely brushing the grass. She hurls her body directly at Dean, but Dean isn’t perturbed, knows the nature of demons, and Traps. Her body bounces off of the invisible force binding her, sends her hurtling back into the center.

Sam’s eyes clear, and then Agrat is silent, face pale, hair still whipping around her like a sandstorm, heedless of the lack of wind.

“I’ll finish you for that, My King,” Agrat promises, voice leaden like steel.

Sam admires her, detached, but smiles at Dean, friendly.

“She was feeding on her host. I took care of the host, and now there’s a Devil’s Trap carved onto her ribs.” Sam says.

Dean nods, one eye out for sudden movements.

Sam kisses the top of his head, seemingly unaware. “She’s bound.” Sam faces Agrat entirely, and breaches the inner ring of the Trap.

Dean just barely contains the shout of anger at this, reaches for his brother’s sleeve to jerk him back to safety, take Sam away.

Agrat stills herself, with obvious difficulty. “I hope you don’t mean for me to be a peace offering for him,” she sneers, decadence of propriety tinging her words. “He doesn’t know peace.”

Sam’s hand curls around the thinness of her upper arm. “Maybe you can teach him about it, then.” Sam says.

Sam turns toward Dean, and Dean’s moving, digs his own fingers into Sam’s bicep until it has to hurt, but then, Dean wants it to. He levels his eyes at his brother’s and Sam winces a little, so Dean knows he feels it.

Dean barely feels the twist of air and sight when they leave this plane for the next.

-

Sam knows it’s a valuable waste of time to monitor Dean when he teleports, but it’s a difficult habit to break.

Dean searches him out just as eagerly, body bent over double as he regains his bearings. There’s only enough time for that, because they’re in front of the Basilica, and Sam can hear the sounds of battle raging from within.

The stained-glass of the windows light up with fire and sun, and it’s almost like a celebration.

Agrat’s laugh is an easy sound between them, but neither of them deign to look down at her.

Dean looks at him, eyes narrowed with thought. “Narthex,” he says, pointedly. Sam nods, he already knows. “Did you plan for her,” Dean says, ever the older brother.

Sam grins, can feel his dimples engraved in cheeks. “Course,” he says, looks down at Agrat with benevolence.

“You’re gonna be in safest part of the Church,” he says to her, and her lips curl. “I’m dancing on the inside, trust me.” She hisses, tongue snaking out and then away, as if she remembers Sam’s earlier threat.

Dean looks at him, hard, and Sam blinks. “Look to me,” Sam says, and Dean nods, recalls what he’s supposed to do.

Sam twists out of being, taking Agrat with him, and he knows Dean will come around back, on Danny’s side.

The narthex is a sight more bloody than it was earlier today, and that’s a violent understatement. The ground is slick with crimson, and he thinks that there’s not enough water in the world to clean this soiled ground.

Even Agrat cringes, and the Church has been desecrated for this very event, to allow his men entry, to break the ground of God beneath them with blasphemy and war.

There’s a Trap carved directly under the narthex, for Agrat’s benefit, and she shudders once when Sam pulls her over the threshold, and then she’s motionless.

Sam glances to the left, and considers his options. His men are bound to the earth, without flight, relic of their sin of pride, cast down to crawl amongst the roaches, lesser beings. He can see the swaths of angel-blades, relics his men had long since retained as artifacts.

They never thought they’d battle the Host again, and Sam watches at Dantalion cuts a large arc in the air with his blade, grabs the arm of the nearest angel and twists it behind his back and up. Dantalion drags the blade up under his chin and through the top of his head.

Agrat averts her eyes next to him, but Sam remains stationary, watches at the light emanates from behind the Angel’s eyes, superimposition of wings as Dantalion slides his knife free. The Angel clatters to the ground, covered in his own blood, and that of his brothers.

Danny steps over the body and seems to see Sam for the first time. His face is slightly swollen at the jaw, and he’s splattered with thick ropes of blood, from head to toe. His teeth are covered in a thin sheen, but he grins broadly amidst the carnage when he catches sight of his King.

“Your Majesty,” Dantalion says, inclining his head. He turns quickly, and Sam can see that they’re honestly winning. The Host wasn’t expecting this level of a showing, rightly guessed it was a distraction.

Sam grins.

Just because it’s meant to mislead doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be well done.

Sam can see the bodies of his own men, slashed open at the neck and bleeding out, severed limbs and horns. He’s brought back to himself by Agrat, a small sound of dismay beside him.

There are three of the Host making a line toward him. The first of them is tall and blonde, and his knife is more like a sickle. He hurls it when he notices that Sam has caught sight of them. Sam shoves Agrat behind him, not her time yet, and halts the projectile in mid air.

He can feel the warmth of power from his own desecration, and the continued ruin of the Cathedral. It makes him more than what he normally is, and he’s no slouch of a foe. The blade disintegrates upon Sam’s command, and then Sam looks out beyond the three.

He plucks at the network, one sharp ping, and several hundred heads turn in his direction. It’s Aym that answers his summons, and he’s far enough away from Sam that when he flings an Angel blade in Sam’s direction, his aim needs to be deadly accurate.

Alpha is awake and roaring so loudly Sam can barely hear his own thoughts. His wolf can scent the oppressive threat, and he wants to shift so violently, Sam debates the merits of allowing him the Change.

His wolf would be no less merciless than himself, he knows.

Sam’s fingers close around the tip of the blade, and the fine point slices into his palm. He quickly flips it to the handle and stabs home, center of the chest cavity. The Angel bleeds out in a storm of light, and Sam flings the dead body of his vessel into his brethren.

They’re inexorable, continue coming even as they fling the body of their slain away. The swath of silver is coated in slick crimson, and Sam’s smiling as he launches it into the forehead of the Angel closest to him, tip emerging from the other side, covered in brain matter.

The Angel sinks to one knee and his mouth falls open, burning light of Heaven screaming from his body.

Sam vaults over his corpse, one fluid lunge, pulls his blade free and the final Angel falls upon him before he can get his body wholly upright. The Angel wraps one arm around Sam’s neck in a half-Nelson, and it’s more difficult for Sam to angle this way.

Sam sighs, with his limited air, and drops down to one knee, sudden shift in Sam’s weight throwing the Angel off balance. The long black hair of the Host brushes Sam’s cheeks, and he shoves the chokehold up and over. He doesn’t give the Angel the time to regain his footing, and he brings the Angel close before he slices through his chest.

“Give Heaven my greetings,” Sam grits out, and stares directly at the blaze of bright that erupts from every orifice.

Sam allows his body to slide free of the blade without pulling away himself, and Agrat remains where she’s bound, amused and perturbed at the carnage surrounding her.

Alpha scents Dean before Sam gets the chance to, and Sam turns in his brother’s direction before he can give the idea conscious thought. Dean looks almost as bad as Danny, which is hard to believe, since his brother just joined the fray.

He’s holding two blades, that bastard, Sam thinks, fondly. His brother hurls one up in the air, and the Angel in front of him is distracted, just as Dean intended. Dean catches it fluidly, by the handle, and jams him in the jugular with the dagger in his left hand.

Dean doesn’t linger, Sam likes to see his kills waste away.

His brother is on to the next, on the left of Danny. Dean leans over to hear what the demon says, and then the two separate, two halves of the Host surrounding them. Sam aches to help, to leave the strongpoint, but he’s dead center of the battle, and he can’t afford to have the enemy take this.

Sam returns his attention to his own battlefield, and finds himself being approached, again. Sam shoves out with his mind, and the two Angels slide back and away from him, shoes slick on the ground. They press forward as soon as Sam releases them, and Sam sighs heavily. He flings the blade with a heavy arc, leans forward to rush at him if the Angel dodges the attack.

The blade cuts the Angel in the shoulder, and Sam withdraws it with his mind. The knife hurtles backwards in the air and slaps into Sam’s open palm. The Angel grunts at the wound but presses on. Sam pulls in his air, steels himself for the kill.

Alpha scratches at his mind so violently Sam slaps one hand to his head. It’s then that he feels the pull, and the Host stops in his tracks.

Agrat becomes motionless, and Sam knows he’s here. Danny and Aym are still fighting, but Samael has entered the combat, the edges of pants splattered with blood, some specks collecting on his cheek.

He’s been fighting then, Sam thinks, with begrudging respect.

Sam addresses the network as a whole, and his men stand down. The only sound is the residual screams of a dying demon, and then the Basilica is blanketed in silence.

Sam steps away from the strongpoint, sheaths the blade in the inner pocket of his jacket. Samael crosses directly in front of him, face impassive. Sam scrubs a hand across his own cheeks, and sighs.

“I don’t know what you thought to accomplish here, Sam.” The archangel’s voice borders on insolence, and Alpha’ll not have that.

Samael continues.

“I’d hoped we’d avoid bloodshed. I wanted this to stay between you and I.” Samael inclines his head respectfully. Sam smiles. “That would’ve been best,” Sam says. “But you brought Dean into this, and you know I can’t condone that.”

Sam says it matter-of-factly, and the archangel knows, he’s aware that what he did was unforgivable. He knows that Sam will show him no mercy, his cruelty will know no bounds.

“I don’t want the whore,” Samael says dismissively. Agrat’s hissing behind them, and Sam steps aside, motions for her to speak, if she wishes.

“Tell me, Samael, when Lilith cast you out, in how many ways did you beg for her again?” Agrat spits, poisoned wine. “Did she let you back in between her legs? You always loved it there.” Agrat pauses. “Like a rat to sewage.” Agrat’s small hands curl into fists.

“You were quite the whore for her, Samael, don’t think I forgot.”

Samael steps that much closer, his brow raised. “This is not a conversation I ever wanted to have with you, ever again.”

Sam plucks at the network, and watches as Dantalion and Aym draw back, hold their men down. Dean slides forward and a little to Sam’s left. When Sam nods his head, imperceptibly, Dean’s faster than Sam’s seen him in a long time.

He’s a little floored by his brother, the inhuman skill he possesses, borne of years of servitude in honor of a thankless cause.

The floor around Samael’s feet lights up as Dean flings the lighter to the ground. It catches instantly on the holy oil Sam had long since laid around the narthex, in preparation. It encloses Samael’s body faster than the archangel has the time to move, and Sam breathes easy when the ring of Holy Fire completes itself.

Samael smiles, and it’s too bright of a grin for someone who has just been so clearly one-upped.

“I may not be able to cross, Sam, but that’s entirely different from being bound.” Samael whispers, and it’s like a secret they’re keeping together.

Sam steps back into the Devil’s Trap, next to Agrat. “Of course.” Sam acknowledges. “I wouldn’t forget about the runes.” Samael’s face twists with the same anger he displayed for Sam in The Between, and Sam can feel the archangel press at the edge of his power, and then bounce back, bound by the Enochian Trap and runes that Sam had laid down earlier today.

It’s carved into the marble beneath their feet, overlaid with holy fire. A circle with Enochian runes at four surrounding points. Sam thinks the archangel has underestimated just how through he knows how to be when he’s researching.

And he meant it when he said that he was finished. This is done.

“When I’m free, I’ll not waste anymore time, Sam.” Samael says. The angel looks over at where Dean is standing, just behind him. Dean meets his eye, leans down and snatches the lighter up, clicks it closed.

Dean steps closer to the angel, close enough to touch, the heat of the fire licking around his clothes.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.” Dean says. “I hold grudges even longer than him,” Dean says, motioning in Sam’s direction.

The Host looks frightened, unsure of their battle tactics, with their commander so soundly captured. Sam almost needn’t have shed any blood at all. Sam turns to address his Dukes.

“Listen for me.” Sam doesn’t need to say anymore than that, and his men file out, and Sam knows they’ll connect and teleport back to Hell, because he can’t afford the loss of them here. He can feel the snap of the network, Dantalion’s voice, battle-hungry and rabid.

“Call me for backup.” Sam’s hard-pressed not to smile at the wish, and then it’s just Dean and Sam, and the remains of Samael’s Host, smaller than the army Sam brought with him. They’re stoic and silent, and Sam doesn’t know what this will do to them, but he hopes it burns.

“Honors, Dean?” Sam says, turning to his brother.

He thinks that he would bleed Dean’s own blood for him, if he could, and he wonders why he ever considered that a weakness.

-

Dean’s whistling when he comes to stand by his brother, and he knows he looks like death warmed over. He’s splattered with blood, feels more alive than he knows what to do with.

He’s got four blades on his person right now, and Danny’s collected all the wings of the Host that Dean severed himself.

Dantalion says that he can start his own collection, said it admiringly, like he’d never seen Dean in action before.

Dean thinks he’d like that, wants Samael’s wings mounted over his mantle. Wants his boys to know what sacrifice looks like.

Sam’s holding something in his outstretched palm now, and Dean takes a good look. He’s quiet, rebelling against the shock in his system, scorpion sting for his insides.

It’s a heart.

It’s dead, that much is obvious. Dean can see the division of the septum, two atria and two ventricles. It’s shriveled in his brother’s hand, patches of dried blood in certain places.

Dean doesn’t know what Sammy wants from him. He can kill without compunction, but he’s not sure where they’re headed. It doesn’t really matter, because they’re hurtling down the road regardless.

Samael’s body hurtles forward, buffered by the sanctification of fire. It doesn’t stop him from attempting to break free, and Dean hears every aborted rush, the invisible clang of metal as the trap holds, and Samael writhes within.

“That’s old magic, Sam,” Samael growls, and it’s as pseudo-benevolent as always, tinged with anger and desperation. “There’s always a cost.”

Sam smiles, and Dean looks at his brother, and he wilts, because he can see the child, spindly legs unsteady on countertops.

Braced against Dean’s shoulders as he reaches, up up, for what, Dean doesn’t remember. But Sammy needs, and so Dean provides.

It’s his masterpiece, he realizes, and his breath catches, heavy and wet in his throat, bastard of a sob. He’s gone and painted a massacre, when he meant to do the saving.

You have fought the good fight.

What’s denial when you’ve never really believed in it? Kept Sam close to the chest, never let him go, not for real, not in all their lives.

Is this what you wanted? What you planned?

Sam’s moving, faster than Dean’s yet witnessed, shoves his body between the thin barrier of Holy Fire and the Heavenly Host. “I’ve already given everything. What’s one more?” Samael regards him, and Dean knows what he’s seeing.

Sam has nothing for himself, no concern for anything but his family, and no lines he won’t blur, cross, obliterate, make crooked so he can step over and under them. That’s what they asked for, isn’t it?

Dean clears his throat.

“What do you need, Sam?” Dean says carefully. Sam’s not looking at him, but he feels the weight of his brother’s gaze despite this. “Feed it to her.” Sam says.

Agrat makes no sound, but she does glance from Sam to Samael in trepidation. Dean realizes what he’s brother’s doing, what his brother did to get this heart, what it’s costing. He wants to echo Samael’s sentiment, but he knows Sam’s aware.

Sam never makes a purchase he’s not prepared to pay for.

Dean doesn’t hesitate, crosses next to Agrat and reaches his left hand out, wraps his forearm and wrist in as much silken-black hair as he can. He uses his grip as a lever, jerks her head back and down. He can see her pulse click in her neck, bird-sound emanating from her throat as she struggles for air.

She’s gentle in this body, locked up tight, and she’s not a threat to him like this. He doesn’t hesitate, never seen the point of second-guesses when you’re already standing at the precipice. When the only step left is the follow through.

She rears backwards, trying to fling herself away at the last instant, but Dean cuts her legs off at the knees, jams his boots into the knobs of bone and she crumples to the floor on her thighs, inadvertently. Dean lowers himself to meet her, and shoves the heart into her mouth.

She twists ineffectively, and Dean uses the side of his palm to press her chin upwards, hold her jaw closed. He pulls her hair around until it brushes against her cheeks, broad forearm still tangled within. He pinches her nose shut and she swallows, with no other available option.

He repeats, strikes her across the face when she tries to spit it in his face. Her head lolls back, braced against the shelf of his arm.

Samael makes a strangled sound behind him, and Sam doesn’t say anything at all. He shoves the last of the heart in between clenched teeth and tugs on her hair so hard that he knows some of it comes off in his palm.

She swallows, and he can see the tear tracks that form at the corner of her eyes. She’s covered with dried blood, some of it her own, from where she’s bitten her own skin raw in defiance. Dean wipes his hand on his jeans and turns halfway to face his brother.

Agrat and Dean remain kneeling, and she’s crying silently, but Dean doesn’t think it’s anymore than tears of betrayal.

Sam catches his eye and Dean releases her, exits the Trap to stand with Sam. “Holy Fire,” Dean says next, and Sam doesn’t look surprised that Dean remembered, figured out what it was he was doing. They’ve only researched this once, a long time ago, but then, the cost was too great.

The heart of a virgin.

Carved out of her chest.

He and Sammy had closed the book in horror. There were other ways. Better ways. Dean shuts his mind to that, brings himself back to blank.

Dean needs to douse her in the Fire of God.

Sam won’t or can’t touch it, and when he smiles, it’s like always. Sam needs him.

Dean strips off his outer layer, wraps his right arm in the black of his jacket. He winds it around his hand and up, secures it until he’s sure it won’t touch his skin. Samael’s eyes follow him woodenly, strange grey-blue of a bird’s egg.

Those eyes have followed him in nightmares. Not for himself, but for his kids. Those were the first things Dean saw after he was captured.

They’re attached to the body that threatened his own.

Dean thrusts his hand in between the flames, and surprisingly, Samael doesn’t move an iota, except for his damn eyes. They trace Dean’s face, and blink, once.

Dean turns to Agrat, and the bitch is scrambling backwards, slamming her spine against the invisible wall at the edge of the Trap.

“I never did you harm, Winchester,” she snarls, fingernails bloody as she scrabbles for purchase on the plasma-oily floor.

“This isn’t my fight,” Agrat continues, but Dean’s close enough to touch, and he kneels before her, one knee this time.

Dean looks at the swath of fabric covering his arm, the bright heat of Heavenly fire. He can feel the warmth humming against his skin, and he pushes it towards her.

She’s screaming already.

“Oh! Well, in that case,” Dean says pleasantly, and drags the fire down the long, dark line of her hair.

It catches quickly after that, sprinkling across her torso, fleeing down her legs to lick at dirty soles. It claims her face last, somehow, and Dean skips out her reach as she stands in agony, only to crumple back in on herself, screeches at the top of her lungs.

The remainder of the Host keep their eyes trained on the display.

Dean watches as Sam turns halfway to face Samael. “When she burns out, she’ll explode.” Sam shrugs carelessly. “She’s a bomb. It’ll kill any of my men within a mile radius.” Sam motions at the lack of demons in the vicinity.

“But I don’t know what it’ll do to your Host yet, do you?” Sam says.

Samael’s eyes flicker with an unnamed emotion and he whirls around in his Trap, ready to give command, but Sam stops him. “Look at her,” Sam breathes. “Don’t you wanna say goodbye?”

Agrat curls in on herself once more, but now it seems like an involuntary muscle spasm. Her screams have died out, flame burning her vocal cords to a crisp.

The Host suddenly screams as one, and Dean listens, can hear Samael screech, chink of his armor. “Avert your eyes!” It’s too late for the warning, though, because they’ve been looking.

Agrat explodes in a shower of blood-rain and marrow, and Dean’s rocked back on his feet by the invisible wave of power that she expels in her sacrificial death. It thrums throughout the room and passes through the body of every Host.

They contort into themselves, hands over eyes, and it’s a wailing unlike anything Dean’s ever heard before. Sam curves a palm against Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t look.” Dean trains his eyes on Samael’s body instead, and the Angel looks crooked in front of them, spine erect.

“Take to the skies!” Samael says loudly, puts the force of his whole body behind the words, but they don’t come out as a scream. Dean watches anyway as the Host staggers together, without any of the finesse Dean has come to expect from them.

They’re blinded, he realizes, and then he blinks and the Cathedral is emptied, only the blood of the fallen remains.

Samael holds his chin up, sweeps his gaze over Dean.

“He belongs to you,” Samael says, motioning to Sam, “as much as you belong to him.” Dean raises a brow in challenge.

“I see, now.” Samael turns his long-reaching gaze to Sam, but he still addresses Dean. “You remind me of her. I couldn’t spill her blood, anymore than I could yours.”

Sam takes a half-step closer, face black with night-rage.

“Kneel.” Sam says, and Dean crosses his arms, keeps his eyes on his brother’s countenance. Samael remains still, and Sam takes another step forward.

“A capite ad calcem*,” Sam continues, and Dean thinks the sound of knees slapping against stone is the most satisfying sound he’s heard in all his life.

Samael’s head is tilted toward the ground, for the first time all evening, and Dean regards his brother in the early light of the morning.

“This is yours,” Sam says to him, warmth of love coloring his tone. Dean can smell his brother’s wolf, sexually charged and angered at once, clean air and pine.

Dean nods, kneels for the final time this evening, eye-level with Samael’s dark hair.

He grins up at Sam, suddenly content in a way he didn’t know his body remembered how to be.

“Always was.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Veni ad me, meretrice magna, et potiter solvendum, coram me (Come to me, the great harlot, in possession of, and be paid, in front of me.)  
> 2.) A capite ad calcem (from head to toe)
> 
> Okay guys, final chapter! There's a lot more of this story that needs telling (especially about the twins), but this is the finale to this particular section. There will be timestamps, plus other mini-ficlets concerning this 'verse, and probably longer fics as well. But, if there are any questions you're dying to have the answers to, (or just smutty/interesting things you'd like to see written about) I'm probably already planning on addressing them, but I'd like to know which ones y'all consider important, so I know what to start with. 
> 
> If I'm going to write about your question, I'll tell you, or if it's easily answered, I'll let you know too! But, just to be clear, this isn't the end yet!


End file.
